


Let Me In Your Heart Again

by AshCommaMan, EmAndFandems



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley's Bodyswap (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Banter, Bickering, Canon Compliant, Cooking, Crowley Has Self-Esteem Issues (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley's Bad Driving (Good Omens), Crowley's Bentley (Good Omens), Crowley's Wrestling Statue (Good Omens), Deleted Scene: Aziraphale's Bookshop 1800 (Good Omens), Denial of Feelings, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enochian, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fraternizing, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Getting Together, Gratuitous Use of Queen Songs, Happy Ending, Historical, Holding Hands, Hugs, Inspired by Roleplay/Roleplay Adaptation, Love Confessions, M/M, Miscommunication, Missing Scene, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Reading Aloud, Repressed Aziraphale (Good Omens), Road Trips, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Temptation, The Arrangement (Good Omens), Theology, crowley says gosh, eventually, gratuitous use of French, now with art for the final chapter!, this fanfiction can fit so many tropes in it, what do you do after the world ended? hug of course
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:41:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 63,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25960753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AshCommaMan/pseuds/AshCommaMan, https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmAndFandems/pseuds/EmAndFandems
Summary: "Could be anything," Crowley explained.Anything at all, say the word, nothing off limits from my end.Stupid. "And the way it works, you'd have the chance to say no. It's not that I force anyone into doing things. Just make it more appealing s'all. So. What do you want, Aziraphale?""I want—"The apple, the whole damn Garden.He flapped his hands uselessly in the air. "I want..."You. I want to be free."Well. Perhaps a nap." His voice was nothing more than a whisper.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 253
Kudos: 129





	1. Forge Every Mountain

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [knaveofmogadore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/knaveofmogadore/pseuds/knaveofmogadore) for your help in rating this fic, and to everyone who put up with all the ominous screaming we did in various servers while writing this.  
> This fic IS completely written and will update weekly on Mondays!
> 
> Cw for alcohol in this chapter.

#  **1020: Suffolk**

Aziraphale was just finishing blessing the premises of the new Abbey, conversing pleasantly with the nuns, and in general doing his Angelic Business. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a flash of bright orange and narrowed his eyes. He turned around, and lo and behold it was Crowley, looking in general very suspicious and evil-like. The word “skulking” came to mind. Aziraphale crossed the street towards him and hissed, "What are you doing here?"

Crowley shot him a grin and spread his arms wide. "What's it look like I'm doing? What am I usually doing, angel? I'm here on business. Tempting and the like. I take it you're doing… whatever the opposite of 'tempting' is. How's that working out for you?"

"Blessing," he provided, crossing his hands primly in front of him. "There's nothing to tempt here, Crowley, unless you would like to try your luck on sanctified ground with a couple of nuns." Hoping to distract him from his work, Aziraphale started walking away from the abbey. "And besides, wouldn't your job be easier if you didn't reveal yourself in public to your nemesis?"

"You could've run me through on any number of occasions before this," Crowley said, falling in to stroll beside Aziraphale. "Or you could if you hadn't, y'know, 'lost' your holy weapon. Anyway, 's hardly public— what, is a nun going to report seeing a demon talking to an angel? Might make her a saint or burn her, but they won't  _ do _ anything about it. So how's the abbey? Have you blessed it top to bottom? Ensured the relics are well and  _ truly  _ protected from the  _ dastardly  _ forces at work in the area?"

"Angels don't kill," Aziraphale replied, delicately allowing the comment about the sword to drop. "Not even demons." He glanced over his shoulder and let out a breath. "Well, it's no Canterbury, but it certainly will do. The powers of Heaven aren't quite what they used to be, in this world."

"Angels don't— sorry, what? There's about fifty stories I can remember that would argue with you there." Crowley paused. "What, losing the faith already? Thousands of years to go before... the Big One, according to your lot's count, and already your grip's slipping? Didn't think I was having  _ that  _ much of an effect."

"Not  _ losing, _ Crowley. Simply experiencing an ebb. It happens; humans are a fickle bunch when it comes to Faith. I hardly think you're accountable." It seemed the two of them were accountable for precious little anymore: minor tasks put to them, but nothing that really shook the world.

"So it's an issue of free will, then?" Crowley didn't bother trying to hide his smirk. "That was one of mine."

Aziraphale sent him a withering look.  _ "Well," _ he replied, "I'm not entirely sure that's something to gloat about. After all, the less they believe in the Good, the less they believe in the Bad." Which, in the long run, ended up better for Hell, but in the meantime it was better than people worshipping Satan in direct defiance, he supposed.

"That's alright though," said Crowley, "since  _ we  _ don't make a habit of punishing nonbelievers. Doesn't matter if you believed in  _ us  _ when you get down there, so long as you weren't with  _ them, _ if you feel what I'm saying. Kind of a roundabout way to get at it, but more souls is more souls."

"That doesn’t seem fair," Aziraphale said, not so much in response to what Crowley said as it was a general criticism of the way their respective offices were run. "Although I'm hardly consulted on policy decisions."

"Really puts a lot more work on your plate, doesn't it?" Crowley pointed out. "All I've got to do is hope you fall through on your end, and you're out here blessing nuns and preaching or whatever. Seems like there's got to be an... easier way." 

He eyed Aziraphale, who narrowed his eyes and watched Crowley from the periphery. "What are you hinting at?" he asked. He was vaguely aware that Crowley was trying to tempt  _ him,  _ which... apart from being very odd also seemed somewhat purposeless.  _ He _ certainly wasn’t going to end up in Hell.

"Well it's like I said, isn't it? Back in... where was it... Wessex? You were running around thwarting me and I was going about being thwarted and it was— it is— a lot of effort, right? The whole balancing act. Like now, you've just blessed a church, so I'm going to have to get someone to open a pub nearby. Push and pull. Aren't you tired of it?"

"It doesn't  _ matter  _ if I'm tired of it, it's my  _ job. _ And it's your job too." Although he thought that Crowley could stand to do less of a good job if it would give Aziraphale a decade off. "And like I said in Wessex, I'm sure they would check." He bristled.

"Would they?" Crowley raised an eyebrow. "When was the last time they checked, then?"

"Well—" Aziraphale faltered, frowning. "N-n-no one's checked, you know,  _ in person. _ But I'm sure they've been—" he gestured vaguely around— "checking up more subtly. Otherwise, well, there would be no reason for me to have orders! I could just— do whatever I wanted, and let you run rampant!” He paused and then added hastily, “Were it not for my moral opposition to you, of course."

"Of course," said Crowley sardonically. "Naturally. But— listen, if they haven't actually  _ told  _ you they're checking, how would you know? How would  _ they  _ know? Sure, She's got to, but if She isn't saying a thing to anyone— which, you know, She  _ isn't..." _

He broke off and took a moment to scowl before picking up the thread again. "What I'm saying is: if no one's coming down on you, why not give it a go? Just the once, just to try." And when Aziraphale still hesitated, he added, "Look, I'll go first. Not like I can get any lower. Can't expel me from Hell, right?"

"They can dump holy water on you," he pointed out. The next logical statement was to imply that such an event would be good— for Aziraphale if nothing else— but, well, he  _ didn't  _ want that to happen, so he kept his mouth shut. "Besides, it would make sense if Hell wasn't checking up on you. They're Hell."

"Where would they get that from?" Crowley demanded. "They'd have to cooperate with Upstairs to get their claws on the stuff, and Satan knows they're not exactly likely to do  _ that. _ Hell's not very... sophisticated. Politically. Pretty clannish. But they're competent, is the thing— they're good at getting things  _ done. _ They give a demon a job, give me a job, and it happens. So I've got a reputation, you know? And they don't bother looking into it anymore. A few years back I told 'em I'd tempted a king into launching an invasion and they marked it down same as if I'd done it. He  _ did  _ launch one, but I've never spoken to the guy. You see? You said Heaven hasn't been checking, far as you know. I'd wager they're not checking at  _ all." _

Aziraphale stopped walking and turned to face Crowley. "Say...  _ theoretically," _ he waved his hands in a circle quickly, "that I were to indulge you. What exactly are you suggesting?" Come to think of it, there had been a few times he had gotten a memo congratulating him on something or other that he had supposedly done which he had never even heard of, but he always forgot to reply and correct the mistake.

Crowley chose his words carefully. Or at least, he did after letting slip a few almost-words and changing his mind halfway through them. "Just— we could work something out. Figure out an arrangement where we both get to ease up a bit. If we both tell our bosses we've been going at it hard, and cancelling each other out— who's to say we didn't?"

"An _arrangement?!"_ Aziraphale asked, sounding very much like a scandalized noblewoman. "There could never _be_ an arrangement between us, Crowley. And working with you—" Oh, he was definitely trying to tempt him— "It would _fly_ in the face of my orders, go against everything I believe, everything I am!"

"M'not saying you should do anything too dreadful," said Crowley, putting a twist of an accent into the last word in parody of Aziraphale's delicate sensibilities. "Your orders are _ Make sure this gets done, _ yeah? Mine too. If we... worked around them... it'd still get done. Less of a waste of effort is all." He didn't touch the idea of personal beliefs. Suggesting that an angel wasn't as devout as he ought to be seemed a sure way to end the conversation, and he had a feeling he was making progress.

"So... if  _ my  _ orders are to spread Goodness in Edinburgh, and yours are to spread Evil in Edinburgh...?" Aziraphale ended the sentence with a raise in voice and brow, not wanting to make the conclusion himself— that could be conflated as thinking of it himself and therefore giving in to un-Angelic thoughts.

"Seems to me only one of us needs to be there," Crowley said quietly.

Aziraphale hummed, thinking about it for a long moment. Then he gasped, as if he had scandalized himself. "That would be ridiculous!" he said. "Why— I can't do a temptation! And you— wouldn't your— I dunno, your skin flay off or something, if you did a blessing? And how am I supposed to know you wouldn't take this opportunity to just spread  _ more  _ evil?"

"You let me worry about my own skin." Crowley tried to smile. "How d'you know you can't if you've never tried? Same stock, Aziraphale, same breed. If I can do it, you can do it. S'the same thing really, just the other direction." He didn't say he thought Aziraphale was already plenty good at the temptation business.

Aziraphale fidgeted back and forth on his feet. "I..." He huffed. How could he agree to something like this? Working with a demon? Having dinner and socializing and being generally polite was one thing— Aziraphale couldn't really find it in his heart to be rude to anybody... usually— but actually being in cahoots? That sounded dangerously close to treason and, well, he was looking at the result of an angel being treasonous.

"If it gets out, I'll handle it," said Crowley, half-aware of what he was promising. "Say I tempted you into it. I'm very good at it, they'll have to believe me. And— well, I don't mean to imply you  _ aren't  _ good at your job, Satan forbid— but it doesn't seem like the higher-ups on your end think extremely highly of you, so who could blame you for falling prey to the  _ very dangerous  _ Original Tempter? It's all on my head, I swear. Pardon me for not crossing my heart."

Aziraphale stuck his nose up. "Hm," he said. The problem was, Crowley  _ was  _ tempting him, and that fact stung his pride. He glanced furtively to the side. "Well, why don't we discuss it somewhere with a little more privacy? What would you say to a spot of supper?"

"Wouldn't say no," said Crowley, unaware that he was employing the same double-negative agreement that Aziraphale favoured in cases like these.

"Good enough for me.” He led Crowley to a hostel where they might have something to eat. It was a dusty, dark place, but most places like this were, so by local standards it was rather nice.

Crowley looked around the place as Aziraphale found a table. "Not a bad choice."

"Not many choices around," he retorted, letting out a long breath and relaxing into the chair. It had been a long day, doing all that work and dealing with  _ Crowley. _ He decided when he got home that he would settle down and read for the next few days.

"Mmm. I could get on that."

Aziraphale hummed. "Wouldn't your services be better-appreciated at a brothel, or some similar den of sin? A tavern seems to toe the line."

Crowley shrugged. "Anywhere can be a place of sin if you get enough people together. It's all in the spin." And he was very, very good at the spin. When used car salesmen came around, Crowley would be heralded as king.

"For pack animals, humans do tend to get rather rowdy in groups," Aziraphale conceded. "Well, it would certainly give me more variety. The ale is terrible here, but at least the food is good. The other tavern in town has terrible food and only slightly better ale. It really is a travesty."

"It's a big world out there," Crowley pointed out. "Surely you could relocate. Somewhere out in the wide world there must be a decent barhouse."

"Oh  _ probably," _ said Aziraphale. "But I can't just  _ relocate. _ This is where most of my assignments are." As much as he would like to be in a place of  _ culture,  _ he just couldn't. For the same reason he couldn't just let Crowley do his job for him.

"Could nip out to Paris for a quick influence," suggested Crowley, looking at him sideways. "I've got some king to tempt next month, I think."

"Hm," Aziraphale said, half aggressively and half thoughtfully. "And I suppose you're suggesting I go there, do your work for you, and take my dear time savoring the local cuisine? All while you run around here doing Heaven knows what."

"Heaven  _ doesn't  _ know what," Crowley corrected. "What do you say? Trial run? Surely you've got something to accomplish here I could take care of, if it makes you feel any better." _ If it lets you keep your moral high ground, _ he thought.

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes at him. "Well... I am meant to overlook the ascension of a bishop in a few weeks." This was  _ not  _ assent, he told himself. He was merely stating facts.

"Blimey, your job's easy. Overlooking's loads simpler than tempting." Crowley sat up straighter in his seat as it occurred to him that this was probably a tactical blunder. "I mean, less for me to muck up for you."

"It's not  _ all  _ overseeing, you know," said Aziraphale. "I'm meant to bless and.... what's the opposite of tempt?"

"You said bless when  _ I  _ asked," Crowley told him. "Still sounds straightforward enough."

"Mm, no, tempt towards good. Encourage, really," he amended, but let it drop as Crowley moved on. "If you put something on my record, I'll— well I'm not sure what. Never talk to you again, almost certainly."

"Your record will remain spotless," Crowley assured him. "They will never know the difference."

***

A few months down the line, after precious little contact and  _ much  _ anxiety for Aziraphale — constantly waiting for a crack of holy thunder and for Michael and Gabriel to come chew him out or worse— he eventually figured that Heaven hadn't found out about his little shortcut. Nevertheless, he wasn't entirely sure his fragile constitution would be able to handle this on a long-term basis. 

At the moment, he was enjoying the festivities of a local holiday festival and spotted Crowley out of the corner of his eye. He kept on looking around, pretending not to notice and decidedly not staring.

Crowley could sense someone watching him. Someone who disapproved of him, by the feel of it. He glanced around and spotted the culprit. When Aziraphale wasn't looking, Crowley ducked out of sight to make his way through the crowd on Aziraphale's other side. "Hello."

He was glancing around as subtly as possible, trying to get Crowley back in his eyesight. When Crowley spoke to him, Aziraphale jumped and laid a hand over his heart. "Oh, Crowley," he said.

"Yup. Thought I sensed some divine snobbery in the air." He paused. "So you're still in one piece. Doing alright?"

"Sort of," he replied. "I just got back. They had me in Wales. Dreadful place." He looked Crowley up and down. "So... how have you been?"

"Scotland," he said, shrugging. "Can't imagine it was much worse."

Aziraphale hummed gravely. "No, I'd imagine not." He stepped out of the way as a group of children came running by, laughing and shouting.

"But no divine lightning strike?" Crowley pushed. "Anyone breathing down your neck?" He paused to let Aziraphale flounder for a moment, and then answered his own question. "No, or you wouldn't be here talking to me. So?"

Of course, Aziraphale knew  _ exactly  _ what Crowley was getting at, but he wasn't going to outright admit it; instead he just said, delicately, "So?" He arched his eyebrows and glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes, as if looking at him indirectly would give him deniability about standing right beside him.

Crowley made a series of attempts at speaking, gave up on articulation, and spread his hands. "So how about it?"

To agree, or not to agree. "I have no intention of entering into any sort of contract with you," Aziraphale said, choosing his words carefully. To actually  _ agree  _ to anything more binding than a lunch date seemed awfully foolish when the other party was literally a demon. "Although I suppose if a situation were to ever crop up again, we  _ might _ find it more beneficial to... smudge the rules a bit."

Crowley accepted this as the agreement it wasn't. "Then I suppose I'll be seeing you around."

"Hmph," said Aziraphale, as if they ever made an attempt to  _ not  _ see one another around. He bristled at the smugness, since Crowley would definitely view this as a victory and proceed to hold it over his head for the rest of time.

"Have you tried the food here?" Crowley indicated the refreshments area of the festival. "I heard a rumour they've got wine from 897. Possibly from that little vineyard over in Italy. You remember the one. With the, uh, the fountain in the front."

"Oh yes," Aziraphale said. "The head of that vineyard was a lovely fellow." He very much doubted that the wine was actually what they said it was, but he decided there was no harm in indulging anyway.

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Got to know him well, did you?"

The tips of Aziraphale's ears turned pink. "One might say that," he said. He brushed past Crowley to the food and drink stalls to stay any further questioning.

"Tempted him into anything?" Crowley persisted, grinning. "Or wouldn't you dirty yourself with that sort of thing yet?"

_ "Yet?" _ Aziraphale demanded, whirling to face him. While he looked very indignant, Crowley was a few inches taller and too amused to be shamed. "I find these presumptions of yours not only offensive but unfounded, dear boy."

"Not ten minutes ago we were entering an agreement," Crowley said, glossing over the fact that it was a half-agreement at best, "so I think the moral high ground's looking a bit slippery today."

"Oh and I suppose you're so righteous," he retorted. Aziraphale turned back around and started looking for something to eat to distract him.

"That'll be the day."

Aziraphale hummed, though he wasn't paying attention anymore, instead becoming distracted by a complex culinary display.

"Imagine. Me, righteous. Yeah." Crowley stared off into the middle distance. The noise of the festival faded. "Good one."

"Hm? Did you say something, Crowley?" Aziraphale asked, turning and glancing over his shoulder but not really seeing his middle-distance eyes. One must avoid looking into the eyes of evil, or something like that.

"Wha— Oh. Nope." Crowley cleared his throat. "See anything you like?"

"Well, everything looks splendid," Aziraphale said, waving at a fly buzzing around his hair. "Do you want anything?"

"Already gotten what I wanted," Crowley said, and added hastily, "There's some great cheese back that way."

"Mm." Aziraphale ordered some food and wandered away from the stand with it, nibbling on it. "Where are you staying nowadays?" he asked.

"Tiny place near the river. You wouldn't have heard of it." Crowley grinned wickedly. "Why? You want to get out of here?"

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "It was a polite question, my dear," he said. "Just because we've come to a half agreement doesn't suddenly mean I'm going to be making house calls."

"Is this not something you offer? You could hand out business cards.  _ Miracles and marvels, on the house, AT the house. _ Make a fortune that way."

"And what exactly would I do with a fortune?" Aziraphale asked, grateful that the topic of conversation had shifted away from Crowley's triumphant, gleeful, mischievous smile.

Crowley shrugged. "Charity work, probably. Not really my department, is it? When I get folks rich they don't  _ use  _ it for anything. Sit on it like a dragon. Sleep with it under the bed. Fill rooms to swim in it. The usual, y'know."

"Doesn't that rather make less money for the rest of humanity?" Aziraphale asked because, of course, economics had not been invented yet. "There's only so much gold in the world, after all."

"They all manage somehow," Crowley said uncomfortably. "Or if they don't it's my fault. I think."

"Well, it's more likely to be your fault than it is to be mine," he said casually. Why wouldn't something like people hoarding money and all the gold in the world being used up be  _ his  _ fault?

"Maybe it's their fault. The humans, I mean." Crowley considered this. "Well, the ones keeping it all to themselves. Not the ones who can't manage in a system like that."

"Hm, perhaps," Aziraphale said. "Then again, the king is responsible for keeping them safe, so perhaps all that gold is warranted."

"Oh sure," said Crowley breezily. "Divine right and all. He's been  _ ordained. _ Or weren't you party to the advent of monarchy? S'that a  _ policy decision  _ no one consulted you on?"

"It was politically motivated, actually," Aziraphale corrected. "To take power away from, well, the  _ actual  _ church, and uh, recenter it closer to home, I suppose you could say. But, yes, I was there."

"Careful, angel, getting close to treason there, and we wouldn't want you to have to spend a miracle escaping a prison cell. Probably wouldn't look very nice on the papers."

"Hm," he said, lips pursed. Only if Crowley snitched. "It's part of the Plan, surely."

"Can't see how it could be otherwise," said Crowley, with a tiny and deeply sarcastic bow. "Of course."

Aziraphale watched this display with a cocked eyebrow. "Are you quite finished?"

"I could go on if you'd like, actually."

"Best not." He found a suitable enough stump and sat down on it, running a hand over his face. "It's rather hot, isn't it," he remarked.

“They say a hot March is good luck." Crowley frowned. "Do they say that? Someone's probably said it."

"I'm quite certain no one has ever said that," Aziraphale replied. "And if they had, I would wonder at their wits."

"Probably good for the plants or something," said Crowley vaguely. "Unless that was in one of those stupid cold countries...?"

"No clue," Aziraphale said, being no expert in plants or weather. "I only wish there were more shade."

And suddenly there was a large, dark cloud moving in, blowing by overhead to blot out the sun. It was a simple enough miracle to explain; ruining the nice weather would negatively impact many people's mood and result in less virtuous behavior. Ruining a holiday celebration fell neatly in line with... with any  _ other  _ reasons someone might want to summon a big cloud. Crowley glanced upward as if he had just noticed its appearance. "Would you look at that. Got lucky."

Aziraphale glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. "Yes, lucky," he replied. "Hm." Still, though, he smiled and shut his eyes as the sun was covered.

"Funny festival, this," said Crowley. "Funny holiday really."

"What do you mean?" he asked. Though he supposed there wasn't much reason for a demon to understand Easter.

"They move the bloody thing around!" Crowley shook his head. "What kind of commemoration can't make up its mind which day to be on?"

Aziraphale thought about it. "Well, it's the holy day," he said. "Although… I suppose the day the young man rose wouldn't change just to be on a holy day." Come to think of it, Crowley might be onto something.

"You were  _ there," _ Crowley accused. "Or you  _ told  _ me you were. Surely you'd know the right date."

"That was several hundred years ago," Aziraphale reminded him. "I'm not going to memorize every important date."

"Convenient," said Crowley. "I expect that's what you'll be telling me when you forget to show up someday."

"Oh, come now," said Aziraphale. "I'm not the one who showed up thirty minutes late to Babel." He started rifling through his memories, wondering if he had at some point forgotten to keep an appointment with Crowley.

"That wasn't my fault. No one told me they'd fucking eaten my rooster."

Aziraphale hummed. "I suppose one might argue that it's not your fault then," he said, with only a bit of insincerity.

"Maybe you tempted them into it," said Crowley, to watch Aziraphale frown at him. "Food's your thing, yeah? How do I know you didn't eat my chicken."

Aziraphale did, in fact, frown at him. "Wasn't that one of yours?" he asked, changing the subject. "The tower, I mean."

"It does seem like me, doesn't it," Crowley said, and pretended that was an answer. "Look, are you going to sit here nattering about history all day?"

"Would you rather talk about something else?" asked Aziraphale. All of a sudden Crowley seemed to be in a sour mood. Aziraphale wondered if he had done something wrong. Or would it be right? Putting a demon in a bad mood seemed to be something that would be considered good.

Crowley seized at the chance to choose the topic change. "Butterflies," he said. First thing that came to mind. A fraction of a second later, his mind flashing through the potential metaphorical resonances of the choice, he could have kicked himself (literally; Crowley's legs maintained a level of flexibility that gymnasts would envy). He could only pr— hope that the angel wouldn't pick up on any of them.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at him. "Butterflies?" he asked. Seemed entirely random, but he supposed he  _ had  _ asked. "What about them?"

"Dunno. Useless pretty things." Crowley was only just tactful enough to realize that with that phrasing he probably shouldn't finish with  _ You ought to like them. _

"They aren't useless," Aziraphale protested. "They occupy an important biological niche. Without them, well— the whole system would fall apart! It's very specifically designed." Aziraphale didn't think he believed in 'useless pretty things.' Everything had its use, even if it wasn't apparent to them.

"All part of some great plan," Crowley said, in careful lowercase.

"Yes, exactly," Aziraphale said, ruffling like a very pleased and plump sanderling. "We all have our functions, our purposes." It was comforting, to have a reason to exist.

This was getting too close to capital-letter territory. "Butterflies may be part of your end of things," Crowley said, "but giving moths a taste for fabric  _ has  _ to 've been ours."

Aziraphale's satisfied smile settled into a line at the thought of the clothes he had lost to moths over the years. "Almost certainly."

"Oh, come on," Crowley told him, correctly reading Aziraphale's expression, "don't tell me yours aren't miraculously bugproof."

"They were, for a while," he said, hand flitting through the air. "But eventually Michael began reprimanding me for overzealous miracle use."

Crowley gave him a pout. "Tragic." He paused. "Is  _ zealous  _ really a bad thing, though? I mean, for an angel to be reprimanded for overzealousness, that's..." He couldn't say what it was, but he thought the unfinished sentence covered the basics.

"Gluttony is not a particularly angelic trait. At least, not when it comes to selfish use of my heavenly abilities." Aziraphale probably had other gluttonous traits, but he didn't really count eating and reading, since those were  _ human  _ habits that he was using to understand them better.

For a moment, Crowley tried to consider how he could spin his idea to Hell if it showed up on the forms, but even  _ meddling with the personal effects of the Enemy  _ didn't hold much water, so he held back the offer. "Gluttony's got nothing to do with self-defense," he pointed out instead. "Th' moths started it, really."

Aziraphale chuckled. "I don't think Head Office would see it that way," he replied. "They're only insects, after all. And it's only a coat."

"A nice coat, though," said Crowley. "An's'not like insects are harmless, there's plenty that can kill a— a mortal person."

"Not moths, though," said Aziraphale, trying to understand why Crowley was justifying his miracle use to him. "I'm sure one day the humans will invent some way of keeping the little bastards off, though."

Crowley made a mental note to push that particular idea to the next moderately clever person he found. "Mm. And in the meantime we must suffer the holes in our precious garments, I suppose."

"Forge every mountain," Aziraphale said, idly quoting something he had been told the Almighty had said at one point and butchering it amazingly.

"I— what?"

"The holes, in our clothes. It's a mountain and we must— well. Climb it. Forge. Ford.  _ Whatever." _ He waved his hand again, as if waving away the memory of his stupidity which Crowley would inevitably always remember.

"Forge every mountain," Crowley repeated, slowly, savouring the words. "Should be on greeting cards."

Aziraphale had the impulse to shove Crowley, but thought better of it. Touch was much too out of the question. "Alright, alright."

"Is that your newest venture? D'you sell miniature, uh, tiny little... tiny landscapes? Have you got a nice place set up where you can— where you sit all bent over a table and craft these things?"

Aziraphale stood up. "Oh hush." He fought a smile. "It was one verbal slip up. You're one to talk." He started wandering around again, having finished his food.

It was, of course, entirely out of the question to admit that the options were either teasing Aziraphale for it, or throwing himself at him. So Crowley stood to follow and said, "That's why I have to get all I can when the chance comes," and then regretted even saying that much.

Aziraphale smiled. "Not sure if I should be offended or flattered," he said sarcastically. Of course to be flattered would be out of the question, but. It required noting.

_ Flattered. _ "If we offend, it is with our good will." Crowley smiled. Not a bad turn of phrase, that. Have to get it written down sometime.

"I'm not sure you are  _ capable  _ of having good will," Aziraphale replied, with the same amount of teasing insincerity.

"I've known a fair few in my time." Crowley crossed his arms. "Though y'know you may be right, most of those blokes were right arses when you got to know them."

"Hm, I'll count that as a point in my favour then," he said.

"Are we keeping score?" said Crowley, with great interest. "What's the tally at, then?"

"Well, I may have lost count at some point, but I'm fairly certain I'm leading."

"Absolutely no way." Crowley shook his head, and then shook it again for good measure. "That's an outright lie and you know it, angel."

Aziraphale laid a hand on his breast. "I am an  _ angel, _ dear boy. I  _ don't  _ lie."

"Right. Because the holy have never reshaped truth to be more appealing," said Crowley. "Remind me, how's the king?"

Aziraphale sent a look to him out of the corner of his eyes. "You sound a bit holier than thou, Crowley," he said, avoiding the question.

Crowley snorted and did not give that an answer.

"What?" Aziraphale demanded. "You're acting as though you don't lie for a  _ living." _

"Oh, sure. S'just the use of that phrase aimed at me's, well. How should I put this? A bit—"  _ tactless, _ he wanted to say, and settled for, "heavy-handed."

"It was meant to be ironic," Aziraphale informed him. Could he blame the demon for assuming seriousness, though? Well, he could and he would.

"No, I definitely got that." Crowley rolled his eyes. "Could've hit me with a club with more subtlety, I assure you."

Aziraphale figured that actually threatening to hit Crowley with a club wouldn't be very angelic, so instead he said, "Hmph," and left it at that.

Crowley smiled. "Point to me, I believe."

"Good thing we're not  _ actually  _ keeping score."

"Frightened to lose a battle, angel?"

"Not at all," he said. "The general direction of the universe bends ultimately towards good, after all."

"Doesn't seem very fair. Free will a load of bunk, then?"

"Only when it comes from you, dear boy," he said, smiling at Crowley. He had no idea if free will was real or not; the accounts were rather contradictory.

Crowley sputtered. Really, what a thing to say. "It'd better not be," he said finally, "otherwise what was the fruit thing about, s'what I wanna know."

"Perhaps giving the illusion of free will, but fitting it all nicely into a Plan." That was what Aziraphale told himself, in order to alleviate some of the guilt he associated with possibly doing The Wrong Thing in Eden.

"More heavenly lies," Crowley said, nudging Aziraphale and immediately pretending he hadn't, so as to avoid thinking about why he had done it.

It was almost certainly by some small miracle that Aziraphale did not immediately turn an unholy shade of red and shirk away from the touch. He straightened his shirt and cleared his throat. Twice. "Well, you'll think what you think."

Crowley wondered how to say  _ I wouldn't ask if I didn't want to hear your thoughts  _ without sounding like... like that. "I will that, yeah. Seems unlikely you could change that." Not that he'd mind Aziraphale giving it a try all the same.

"Well, certainly won't stop me from trying, I suppose."

"Wouldn't have it any other way." Crowley dared to smile at Aziraphale. He looked away before he could see whether or not it was returned. Safer not to know.

Aziraphale wasn't sure if he believed him, but decided it would be better not to bring that up. "I believe that is the definition of... nemeses."

"Oh, was that not official yet?" Crowley turned back to him and stuck out his hand. "Do me the honour of becoming my sworn enemy?"

Aziraphale stopped abruptly and stared at the hand before staring at Crowley. "Ah, no," he said, though he did not move.

Crowley froze. Then he yanked back his hand. "Stupid idea anyway," he muttered, and shoved both hands safely into his pockets to storm off.

Aziraphale blinked and stared after him as he stormed off. He worked through the last ten seconds, trying to figure out where he had gone wrong. His first instinct was to go after him, but then he realized that that was not something one did to their enemy, so he just watched red hair disappear into the crowd, feeling ashamed, though he told himself that that was ridiculous.

There were too many people here. Too many humans around to lose control, too many humans  _ in his fucking way. _ Crowley stopped trying to walk between them neatly and gave in to the urge to step on toes and shove shoulders. "Move," he hissed at one particularly slow-walking partygoer, and took little comfort in the fact that this would turn up well on his reports. If he could focus on creating mischief and seeding discord, he'd be fine. If he could. If he— Ugh. Crowley wasted a few miracles on ensuring petty mishaps would befall the ten closest people within the next five minutes.


	2. A Wall and the Whisper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome aboard the pain train. :)  
> CW for alcohol.

#  **1348: Kent**

Aziraphale was wandering down a London street, fingers fiddling together nervously. There was news out of Sicily that there was some disease that was beginning to spread towards London. It was such a crowded city already — what would happen when it inevitably spread here?

Crowley spotted Aziraphale first, because how could he not? He didn't have to  _ try  _ to find the angel. He simply looked around, and if Aziraphale were nearby, Crowley's eyes would catch him. So he saw Aziraphale, of course. But he didn't approach. Not this time, not again. Not after last time's humiliation. He turned his back, deliberately, and wished that he couldn't still tell with unerring accuracy where Aziraphale was.

Aziraphale spotted a flash of red hair and his heart fluttered. A friendly— well, familiar— face. That was what he needed. He walked quickly across the street. "Crowley?" he said, smiling and reaching his hand out as though to touch him.

Crowley stopped walking. Stopped moving. Almost stopped breathing, really, and would have if he'd been breathing in the first place. They were saying the air was bad in this part of town now... Something about an increase in local unwellness. Even Downstairs was beginning to take note, which is why Crowley was here. "Hello, angel," he said, still unmoving, still stiff.

Aziraphale paused, watching him freeze up like he had been caught doing something wrong. Which he probably had been, but that never really seemed to be a problem for the two of them. "Up to no good, I assume?" he asked.

"Brilliant analysis," said Crowley tightly. He was staring at the ground in front of him. He would not turn. He wouldn't. That Aziraphale had approached him first— it didn't mean anything. It never would. "When am I ever doing anything else."

"Well, I wouldn't know," Aziraphale said. He wanted to ask if he was alright. He wanted to ask why he wouldn't look at him. But to do so would solidify a fact that they were obviously trying to keep in the dark. So he swallowed his concern and tried to sound casual. "And I am to thwart you, of course."

"And what a bang-up job you're doing."

"Well. Clearly not, seeing as I don't even know what you're doing." Aziraphale took a deep breath and decided to just... circle around him so he could look at him properly.

Crowley tensed. Thank fuck for sunglasses. "Wha'd'you  _ think  _ I'm doing?"

"At a guess, I would imagine you are spreading pathogens."

"No more than you," retorted Crowley, who had no idea what a pathogen was.

"Then what  _ are  _ you doing?" Aziraphale demanded, impatient.

"Skulking about in dark places mostly. For business and pleasure." Crowley, secure in his knowledge that Aziraphale could not see his eyes, closed them. He'd spent the last few hundred years waiting for Aziraphale to show up, so why was it that the only thing he wanted right now was to be left alone?

Oh, thought Aziraphale. Well, skulking didn't seem particularly evil. He had no clue if that meant there was anything for him to thwart in the first place. "Oh. Well. Perhaps we could. Grab a drink."

That sounded much more bearable. Crowley could cope with almost anything when he wasn't sober, so long as he didn't do anything stupid. He lifted his head at last. "Where?"

"Well, there's a nice little pub up the city a little, a bit nicer of a place. Cleaner." Aziraphale gestured. "Come along, dear boy."

He led him to the spoken-of tavern and got them a cosy, somewhat well-lit booth together and got them a round of drinks. He almost opened with asking why Crowley looked so down, but he caught himself. Thank goodness.

Crowley sipped his drink and let the burn of the alcohol in his throat try to remove the knot that had been settled there for longer than he cared to qualify. When that didn't work, he took another sip. He certainly wasn't going to break the silence first.

"So. Anything interesting to happen in the past three hundred years?" Aziraphale asked. He was honestly surprised that he hadn't contacted him to act on this  _ Arrangement  _ they had supposedly settled into.

"Made a friend," said Crowley. "Name of Genghis. Don't think you'd've gotten on."

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. "Why doesn't that surprise me?" he said dryly.

"I suppose you were off Crusading," Crowley said around his drink, watching Aziraphale from over the rim.

"I did help a bit, I suppose you could say," he said. "But, well, what else was I meant to do?"

"Helped people," suggested Crowley, "rather than stab them?"

"Yes, precisely," he said, ruffling in a very self-satisfied way. "As always."

Crowley eyed him sideways. "No replacement sword?"

Aziraphale got the distinct feeling Crowley was making fun of him. "Why would I need a replacement sword?" he asked, frowning. "I'm not guarding the Gate. I'm not much of a fighter anyway."

"Mm." Crowley tried out a smile.  _ I'm not much of a fighter  _ was an interesting way to rationalize  _ I let a demon strike up a conversation moments after giving up my Almighty-given weapon. _ "No, I guess not."

"I much prefer miracles. And reading. Miracles and a good scroll for me. So long as I had snacks, I think I could be quite contented like that forever."

"That's right," said Crowley, nodding approvingly, "guardian what, principality who, just you and a good epic poem, hm? Sod the humans."

"I said miracles  _ and  _ reading," Aziraphale said through a frown.

"Ah! My mistake. I assumed they were  _ personal  _ miracles. 'Turn the page for me.' 'Refresh the refreshm— the snacks.' 'Fetch me the sequel.' You understand."

"Do you really think I'm so selfish?" he asked, eyes large and round and seeking.

Crowley hesitated. The answer was no, but he didn't want to give it. "I'd like to think you could be," he said, which was true enough, and had the added bonus of casting him in a terrible light.

Aziraphale’s frown deepened, though his eyes moved back into his sockets. "Of course, my dear, you would have to be much better at your job," he said.

Crowley's head tipped to one side. "Are you asking me to tempt you into sin, angel?" His tongue darted out to wet his lips. He could do that. Oh, he could be tempting, if that door opened, if Aziraphale ever gave any indication...

He cocked an eyebrow in a way that might even be described as coquettish. If one were to squint and stand very far away. "I'd like to see you try.”

What. The. Fuck. Crowley blinked, which would have been considered unusual enough to note, if not for its being overshadowed in  _ holyshitwhat_ness so completely by _ whatever this was. _ "Uh," he said, suddenly unable to think of any words, let alone a smooth reply. Crowley drummed his fingers along the table edge, which bought his brain time to recover, and then he leaned in closer. Closer than he normally let himself. Closer than he usually assumed Aziraphale would let.  _ Breathe! _ he told himself, before remembering that wasn't the sort of thing that mattered to him. "What sort of tempting are we... talking about here?"

Aziraphale had the distinct, sinking feeling in his stomach that something here had been misunderstood. Whatever had been freed up inside of him by Crowley's validation suddenly froze as he remembered who this was.  _ What  _ he was. He was all too aware of Crowley's proximity, his eyes— though covered— seeming to bore into Aziraphale. He swallowed hard and finally broke eye contact. "There  _ isn't  _ any tempting to be done. I don't know if that's even possible." He would like to think it wasn't, in any case.

"Never know if we don't try," said Crowley, too quickly.

"As if I would let you even try such a thing," Aziraphale said, chastisingly. He moved away a fraction of an inch and took a long drink, hating himself for letting this conversation so out of control— hating himself even more for the fact that he found himself missing it.

So Crowley pulled back too, slammed the rest of his drink down, shoved his heart back down to a normal pace and place. He meant to say, "Right, of course," but his jaw was clenched too tightly to form words; instead he gave an angry sort of hum and stared at the wall. Idiot. Did he have to fuck it up every time? Was this going to be the pattern now? Meet angel, step past boundaries they never speak of, get pushed back and get hurt and get upset over things he should have expected but somehow, stupidly,  _ stupidly  _ hadn't, and repeat? Fuck. He cleared his throat.

Now Crowley was angry, which only made Aziraphale angry. "You seem to forget," he said, moving away more and turning to face him, arms crossed in front of his chest, a shield over his heart. "I am an angel. And you are a  _ demon. _ And the consequences of my being tempted— are, well. We know what they are, don't we?" Oh, and should there be any doubt: his voice was  _ very _ unkind.

A thousand responses flashed through Crowley's mind in an instant. Anything from  _ You've already given in to me dozens of times, you sanctimonious prick _ to  _ You have no fucking clue _ to  _ I can't believe I l— _ Well. He could hardly say that last one. But he thought it anyway. When he had exhausted every possible answer without voicing any of them, he set down his mug, carefully and precisely, slow enough to make it clear that he was deliberately not-smashing it. His hands were trembling. He shoved them in his lap and slid them along his legs, partly to divert the excess energy, partly to hold himself in place. Crowley wasn't going to run this time. He  _ wasn't. _ He was going to sit here until the angel left first, because he was sick of being the one to leave. He had every right to be here.  _ He  _ wasn't the one being knowingly cruel. Crowley said nothing. Let Aziraphale be the one receiving terse silence for a change; see if he liked pulling eloquence from stubbornness. Crowley wasn't going to budge.

Aziraphale watched every deliberate move, as if in slow motion. He took a deep breath. He opened his mouth. And shut it again. He smiled politely at the young woman who filled their glasses. He fiddled with his fingers: first on the table, then in his lap, and then on the table again. Now how long was this going to go on? How long would Crowley go before he spoke again?

Finally, he huffed out a breath. "Now really, Crowley, don't you think you're being childish?"

"Childish!" Crowley snapped, and then frowned, because he hadn't intended to be drawn out of his silence so quickly. Bloody unfair, the effect Aziraphale had on him, not to mention how horribly oblivious he seemed to be of it.

"Yes," Aziraphale replied in a hushed but angry voice— the same voice quarreling lovers tended to use while in public— "You're being very immature." He did not elaborate.

Crowley seethed. It took a tremendous exertion of willpower to remain seated. "You're immature," he grumbled, because irony was better than any alternative, and at least the conversation might continue. If it continued it might change course. That would be... better.

_ "Immature?! _ Me?!" Aziraphale nearly bounced out of his seat.  _ "I'm  _ not the one—" he waved his hands in Crowley's general direction,  _ "pouting." _

Crowley twisted his head to face Aziraphale so sharply his neck gave a crack that startled someone at the next table. "I don't  _ pout." _

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows, and might have blinked in disbelief. He couldn't even formulate a reply, struck totally dumb. "And what, exactly, do you call what you're doing now?"

"Being angry!" Crowley shouted, slamming both hands on the table and causing the drinks to rattle dangerously. They wouldn't spill. One of them had taken care of it, and who knew which? "Being  _ fucking  _ angry, Aziraphale!" He hadn't meant to lay it out so plainly, but if the cold shoulder wouldn't get an apology, maybe a display of emotion was better geared for it. Not that he expected to receive one. Angels, as a rule, did not apologize. Heaven did not apologize. Heaven did nothing wrong. Ever.

Aziraphale blinked. Crowley's unholy anger was potent enough to taste, sour on his lips. He became keenly aware that the other tavern-goers had turned to look at them. 

Such a show of anger was unheard of from Crowley. Uncommon, at the very least. And what did he have to be angry about! "I don't even know what you're so upset about!" said Aziraphale, the first half coming out in a shout and the second in a careful, angry whisper. "I haven't done anything but stated a fact."

"Fact," Crowley spat, like the word was foul on his tongue. "When's the last time anyone became a— anyone Fell? Call it what it is,  _ angel. _ An excuse."

"An excuse? For  _ what  _ exactly?"

At this Crowley paused. There were a lot of potential responses. There was one answer. He couldn't say anything too close to it. He didn't know what would happen if he did. If this half-heard nothingness were dragged into the light, what would Aziraphale say? What would he think? How— Crowley caught his breath. How would he look at Crowley? No. Absolutely not. "For..." he said, and it was ridiculous, honestly, to be worried about a pounding pulse and unsteady words, but he was, so he said, "For whatever it is you think you're doing." Which was a neat avoidance, a shifting of blame, no longer his problem. Crowley watched Aziraphale's face closely.

He frowned. "What  _ I _ think I'm doing?" he repeated, voice quiet now— almost pensive. How often did he mimic, did he repeat? Too often, it seemed. "I'm not doing anything."

_ Do you really believe that? _ Crowley thought, searching for any sign otherwise, desperately wanting not to be the only one anymore, wanting something, anything. He found nothing. "Right," he said shortly. He should have known better than to expect self-awareness from anyone working for Them. He should have known better than to think he was doing anything more than fooling himself. Angels didn't do this sort of thing. Even angels who gave away swords and ate oysters and collected scrolls. Not that he had many examples to go off of. "Never mind, then. If you're sure."

Aziraphale threw his hands up. "Well what am I supposed to think when you don't tell me anything!" he demanded. "All you do is sit there and glare at me and tell me I'm making excuses and refuse to do any work at all, like you're looking for an excuse to be angry at me!"

"D'you think this is  _ easy  _ for me?" Crowley hissed. "Think this is  _ fun?" _

"This?  _ This? _ What is  _ this?!" _ For God's sake, how could he expect Aziraphale to read his mind?!

Instead of answering, Crowley leaned forward— not to repeat his earlier mistake, just to get his arms propped up on the table, so he could press his fingers to his temples and stare at the circles of wet stained into the wood of the table from years of use. What could he say to that? How could he explain himself without giving it all away? "Anything," he said, almost a whisper, too much of a confession.

As if a light had clicked on in his mind, Aziraphale realized just how profoundly  _ hurt  _ this conversation had made Crowley. How could he apologize in a way that wasn't too much like friendship? How could he make it right without doing something Wrong? "Another drink?" he offered, weakly. It wasn't good enough. It was never good enough.  _ He  _ was never good enough.

"Couldn't hurt," Crowley told the tabletop. Lots of things could, but more alcohol? Numbness was the opposite of pain. Numbness would be almost pleasure, now.

Aziraphale ordered another round, this time of something a bit stronger. He wanted anything but to be sober right now. Really, he wanted to run away, but he couldn't fathom leaving Crowley sitting here, looking defeated and deflated, like a cat after a bath.

Crowley didn't say  _ Thanks,  _ but the glance he threw Aziraphale's way as he reached for the new glass sounded an awful lot like it anyway.

Aziraphale drank it down and when the glass reached the table again, it was filled. He looked around, unsure what to say and unsure if he would say it even if he knew.

The silence between them now had a different quality to it. It tasted less of fury and more of... something unfamiliar. Like if sulphur had an opposite; like the words Crowley hadn't said were bumping up against words Aziraphale hadn't either. There was a weight to the air. Crowley drank and tried to put it out of his mind. He swallowed and thought  _ Angel angel angel  _ like it was the only sound he knew, a plea and a reminder, a wall and the whisper through its crack. He said nothing. Couldn't trust himself.

Aziraphale looked across the table at Crowley, watching him stare at the table. Like Aziraphale was the sun and it would burn to look at him directly. Moments ago he hated the feeling of his shrouded eyes, now he missed it. He didn't want to shine so brightly his best friend averted his gaze. It made him feel too holy. He wished he would break the silence.

"So," said Crowley, because he didn't know how to handle the squeeze of this silence, holding out the word like an offering. An olive branch, if it were accepted; if black wings could be trusted to hold one this time.

"So," Aziraphale repeated, taking hold of the branch tentatively, with one hand. Not taking it. There was enough room to abort, to leave without having to admit he had been there at all.

Crowley let it hang there. Why should he be the one to fix what he hadn't broken? Not that there had been much to break. Aziraphale had made that very clear. "So..." he repeated, but then he looked up and made eye contact, and oh. Oh, that was unexpected.

Aziraphale's heart jumped into his throat at the sudden eye contact, and he found himself thanking the Almighty for inventing sunglasses. "Traveling soon?" he asked pitifully.

Crowley shrugged, sort of; he made a strange wriggly motion, at any rate. "Unlikely," he said, "seeing as the wellness situation doesn't seem to be improving too fast. I'm meant to be here."  _ I'll be in the area. Stay.  _ But he didn't even dare ask Aziraphale the question that might result in hearing that he would.

Aziraphale looked down at the table, feeling as though he might cry. "Mm," he said instead. "I'm surprised your lot wouldn't have you encouraging people to travel, or— sully the air, or something." He traced a line on the table in the few short inches of space that was safe.

Aziraphale had broken their eye contact. Crowley felt something twist unpleasantly. "Plenty of evil to be done in London," he said lightly, and pretended he wasn't staring at Aziraphale's extended fingers.

"I suppose that's true," he said. "Though I mostly intend on keeping to myself. Plenty of old epics I haven't gotten through. Have you read Beowulf?"

"Dragon-slaying bloke?"

"Well, that's only one addition to the long list of things he's known for, but— yes." Honestly, Crowley’s  _ reading  _ anything, especially something like Beowulf, surprised Aziraphale. But he decided better of asking about it.

"Bit of a drag of a read, I hear," said Crowley, wondering if he should mention the role he'd had in getting the story transcribed, and deciding against it on the basis that if Aziraphale's face were to light up even a fraction as much as he expected in response, it might discorporate him on the spot.

Aziraphale actually deflated somewhat, though he shouldn't have been surprised. "Well, one must devote the time to great works," he said.

"Then..." Crowley said, tentatively, trying not to go beyond the safe distance they must have re-established at some point, "you think you'll be around awhile longer?"

"Almost certainly," Aziraphale said. "I wouldn't want to travel in this climate anyway." The hope in Crowley's voice was unavoidable, though Aziraphale would, of course, do his very best.

Crowley busied himself with his drink to distract from the good news. Aziraphale was staying. They would have more time before... Before their next separation, or clash, or whatever else would go wrong. It always did sooner or later. Abruptly, the smile he was stifling became a scowl. He tried to wipe it away before Aziraphale could notice; it would be just his luck for the angel to think he was displeased with the announcement instead of with the reminder that it was all temporary. All of this. It couldn't last forever, but he could. They could. Whatever Arrangement they set up would dissolve eventually, and then Crowley would be back where he had been in Eden, alone and looking for some way to act out. Fruit trees and guardians. Temptations to point out and to seek out. But there wouldn't be anything for him, not after this, not after building  _ something—  _ however tiny— with Aziraphale. Not when his chest was full of the thought of Aziraphale's being in town a little while longer. There was no recovering from this. "Should I expect to see you?" he said, being sure to phrase it as a question so that he couldn't be accused of forcing anyone's hand.

There it was: more hope. Unavoidable. Laid out between them and Aziraphale had the choice to dash it or encourage it. But was it encouraging if he could spin it the right way? "Well, most likely. We  _ are  _ hereditary enemies, after all." The reminder of their places was not an insult now. Because if they were not hereditary enemies, how could they be friends?

"Oh yes," said Crowley, almost grinning now, almost comfortable again, "I assure you, there will be a good deal of... devilry about. Much to thwart. You'll be very busy, I predict. Hardly any time to shut yourself up with a dusty old poem, even, but I'm sure you'll manage."

He hummed, smiling slightly himself now. "Well, I don't see why we couldn't double-task," he said, a suggestion that was not a suggestion. "Kill two birds with one stone, as it were?"

"What, read me poetry while ruining my sinister plans?" Crowley asked, befuddled, but not entirely disliking the idea.

"I was thinking more having you within my line of sight so I could know you weren't up to no good while I read," Aziraphale amended, though the thought of reading poetry to Crowley was an entertaining— if not entirely  _ unwelcome—  _ idea.

It was almost an invitation. Crowley raised an eyebrow. "I'd be— amenable to that."

_ "Amenable,"  _ he replied, languidly. "Well, perhaps the next time you feel inclined to cause trouble I might find you on my doorstep."

That was  _ definitely  _ an invitation. "Might do at that."

Aziraphale smiled. The relief of leaving their argument behind was almost enough for him to relax. But not quite. Whenever they were together there was a constant nagging feeling. Several feelings. Shame. Affection. More shame.

Crowley tried to catch Aziraphale's eye. "Any time in particular work better with your busy schedule?" he asked, because he was a fool who had never learned that not only shouldn't you beat a dead horse, you shouldn't beat it to death in the first place.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "I don't think you need to worry about that," he said. He swallowed the last of another cupful of alcohol. Crowley was heading dangerously close to  _ cohorting  _ territory, a place Aziraphale was determined to steer clear of.

It should have been obvious that Aziraphale didn't mean for him to say what Crowley was already opening his mouth to say. "Welcome any time, then, am I? Just show up and the doors open?"

The other eyebrow shot up. Aziraphale frowned. "I wouldn't necessarily go that far, dear boy," he said, and immediately regretted the  _ dear boy. _ "Don't test your luck."

"Just saying what you said," Crowley muttered. Of course, of course he was being pushed back already. Within the hour. Of course.

Aziraphale frowned. What had he done this time?! "I didn't say anything of the sort."

"What don't I need to worry about, then?" Crowley demanded.

"About my bloody schedule!" He rolled his eyes. Leave it to Crowley to go twisting his words to suit his purpose.

Crowley replayed the last minute of their conversation and shrank in on himself. "Oh."  _ Stupid. _

"Yes," he said patronizingly. "You probably wouldn't like just sitting around with me anyway."

"What'm I doing _ right now?" _ What? Did Aziraphale think he had better places to be— glamorous parties, powerful friends, scintillating conversations? Crowley supposed it was his own fault if Aziraphale did, after cultivating that impression so diligently. "I sit around with you all the time."  _ Whenever you let me. _

Well. He did have a point. "You don't seem to be enjoying yourself," Aziraphale replied.

"S'like having a door shut in my face," Crowley explained, and then flinched. How much had he drunk? He absolutely, positively, definitely did not intend to say anything like that. Out loud. To Aziraphale's face. Oh, this would not end well. "I mean—"

Aziraphale stood up. "If that's how you feel, then why am I wasting my time here?" he demanded, his hands on the tabletop and leaning on them. "By God, why am I even talking to you?!"

"'Zir'phale— wait—" Crowley tried to stand, tangled his legs together, and pitched toward the table. Shit, he really was drunk. "I didn't—"

Aziraphale withdrew his hands as Crowley fell. "I don't even care what you meant to say at this point. I'm tired of this!"

_ "You're  _ tired?!" Crowley said, almost a snarl, all the frustration from their earlier argument surging up again. "You think you're tired of this? What is this to you, what are you even— What do you care?"  _ How much do you care? _

Aziraphale watched Crowley spit at him. Even as he was angry, and Crowley was angry, he knew it was because deep inside he was sad. Angels could sense love, it was natural, but they could also sense other emotions, if they put their mind to it. Crowley radiated grief. But the knowledge of its presence was not enough to extinguish his own anger. "If you're so tired," he replied, voice measured and cruel, "then you will have no problem never speaking to me again, won't you." Still though, he did not move. He needed an excuse, a reason to come back. As he tried to pull away he needed an excuse to stay. He needed the deniability but he needed Crowley, too. No matter how angry he was.

At the word  _ never  _ Crowley was already struck through with the terrible pain of knowing how the sentence would end. For a solid minute, and then two, and onward towards a third, he couldn't move, couldn't speak. He stared at Aziraphale, mind filled with a panicked clamor, chest aching like he'd been run through by a divine weapon in 4004 BC after all, stabbed and left for dead on the wall like he should have been in the first place. Wouldn't that have been easier? Easier than this, than knowing what a forbidden Something More could look like and then having it all snatched away, being punished for thinking it could ever have been real? Crowley had wondered, once, if Eve had thought a single bite would be enough to satisfy. And if everything was part of the Great fucking Plan, surely the humans' expulsion was a part of that, so why give them Eden at all if they couldn't keep it? Wasn't that crueler than starting them out in the desert? Still Crowley didn't move. What answers was he allowed here? Only one. "Fine," he said, and left.

Aziraphale watched Crowley go, his throat shutting up and his eyes filling with tears. He tried to say good riddance, tried to cut the ties so this wasn't so fucking painful. He sat heavily back down in his seat, unsure where else to go, and drank.


	3. The Gnawing Anguish and Sharp Jealousy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up everyone, this is the longest chapter! Also the one in which we earn the M rating; thanks again to knaveofmogadore for your help with that! (Rated M for melon.) CW for food and alcohol. Any anachronisms that survived the editing process are deliberate so please don't correct us on those... We know. We know.

#  **1536: Constantinople**

Aziraphale smiled at the host as he was led into the huge, prestigious dining room. He exchanged words with a few prominent politicians in the room, before being pulled into conversation with an imam and a rabbi who were close with the host. He accepted a glass of water— since there wasn't any alcohol served— and surveyed the room.

Crowley looked up from his plate just in time to see Aziraphale enter his line of sight. "Damn," he muttered. The very important person sitting beside him looked scandalized. "Uh. Sorry. You were saying?" Crowley said, hoping desperately to be engaged in conversation and thus unnoticeable.

The person sitting beside him blinked, and then, glancing to the side for a moment, continued talking about recent political issues that were plaguing the area. 

Aziraphale, his eyes sweeping through the crowd, spotted a certain demon standing out, though looking  _ very  _ much like he didn't want to be noticed. Aziraphale sniffed, remembering that their last conversation had ended on a rather sour note, and decidedly turned away.

That was, of course, until the pair he was talking to walked him over to introduce him to Ahmet— who, of course, happened to be the one Crowley was speaking to— and his foreign acquaintance.

Crowley watched Aziraphale draw closer and only barely resisted the urge to hide his face in his hands. His only consolation was that Aziraphale seemed as intent on avoiding eye contact as he was. "Who're your friends?" he asked... what was his name... Demir? No, that was the chap across the room. Shit, he'd have to wing this.

He stood and gestured to them. "Allow me to introduce my friends Saaqib, Mecnun, and Aziraphale." The first two bowed, and Saaqib said, "May peace be upon you." 

Aziraphale, being the odd one out, smiled uncomfortably. "We've already been acquainted," he said, nodding towards Crowley but pointedly avoiding eye contact.

What was he  _ doing? _ Fucking unfair, telling Crowley never to speak to him again and then marching himself straight over.  _ And  _ acknowledging their history. Crowley had been perfectly ready to pretend he'd never met this stupid gorgeous diplomat. He could've sat through introductions and smiled just enough to be polite without overstepping. This... How was he supposed to handle this? "Hardly," he told Whatshisface, because he wasn't allowed to talk to  _ him. _

"What a coincidence!" Ahmet said in delight. He turned his attention to Aziraphale. "You  _ must  _ join us." Aziraphale, who had no idea how to refuse, smiled and uncomfortably accepted. He sat down in the only remaining seat: directly across from Crowley.

Crowley pulled his legs in under his seat. "Mecnum, was it? How is it you've become familiar with— my friend here?" Shit shit shit. How was he going to get through an entire conversation where he couldn't talk to one of its members and he couldn't recall the name of another? Shit.

"We sailed together for a while a few years ago," Mecnun said. "We found a mutual love of books and ended up talking all night. When he came back to the country, he immediately sought me out." He clapped Aziraphale on the shoulder. The angel coughed at the force, but smiled.

"Ah," Crowley said, wincing, "how nice. I, uh, I meant this one." He looked to the man sitting next to him  _ whose name he should definitely know. _

"Oh, Ahmet?" He waved his hand in a sarcastically dismissive way. "Through work. How else would anyone meet anyone here?" He laughed. "Worst thing that ever happened to me!" 

Ahmet rolled his eyes. 

"And how did  _ you  _ meet Ahmet?" Mecnun asked Crowley.

"Oh, I don't think that's a story I can tell in polite company."

Ahmet turned a rather bright colour while Mecnun laughed. "I like this one!" he said, pointing at Crowley. 

Aziraphale's lips settled into a line. He was disapproving, he told himself. Not nostalgic.

Crowley made himself comfortable with a grin. He could ignore Aziraphale just fine if he focused on the others. Couldn't he? "I have more stories if you'd care to hear," he said, "but I can't be sure Ahmet will allow me the chance to tell them."

"Mm, that's  _ quite  _ enough," Ahmet said, swiftly shifting the subject. "How did you and Mr. Aziraphale meet, Crowley?" 

Aziraphale gritted his teeth.

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "It was so long ago I can hardly be sure." Deflect, sidestep, duck away— these were skills he had long cultivated. He hadn't given a straight answer to most questions in centuries. Basic survival requirement, among the circles he tended to run in.

"Help him out?" Ahmet turned to Aziraphale.

"It was through our work," he said quickly. "We hardly kept in touch, but we keep managing to run into each other." He smiled dryly. "Haven't seen each other in a while, though."

"You must be very pleased to meet up like this today, then!" said Saaqib.

"Mm," Crowley said noncommittally. He still hadn't broken his word and he was damn sure he wasn't going to.

"Well, one might say that."

"Oh, I sense some disdain here," Saaqib commented, grinning. 

Aziraphale flushed. "Not disdain, really," he said, risking a glance at Crowley. "We just had an argument and he hasn't apologized."

_ "I—!"  _ Crowley cut himself off.  _ Never speaking to...  _ He allowed himself a moment to fume before facing Saaqib. "I don't know how I was supposed to give anyone an apology," he said,  _ "if _ I— if he— if one were warranted, without being allowed to speak. If I kept my distance,  _ as he insisted, _ wouldn't you say I was in the right of it? Hm?"

Saaqib cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with being the spokesperson for whatever old drama these foreigners were kicking up. "Well..."

Crowley persisted, rounding on Ahmet with his most persuasive tone. "And wouldn't you agree that respecting privacy is an important  _ virtue?" _

Ahmet exchanged a glance with Saaqib, and then said, "I would have to," with a guilty glance at Aziraphale.

This was pushing it, Crowley knew, but he smiled at Mecnun. "And you?"

"Well," he said, sending a furtive glance around the table. "I don't really know the full context so I can't exactly give a judgement either way."

Aziraphale frowned and addressed Crowley directly. "You could have apologized  _ before  _ storming off like you did," he said. But could he have? Would it have made it better? He didn't care.

Crowley closed his eyes and set down his fork. "Would someone do me the kindness of informing my acquaintance that he knows exactly how full of it he is?"

Aziraphale stood up, the chair squealing as it scooted backwards. He opened his mouth to berate Crowley, but upon seeing the startled gazes of everyone else around them, sat down and swallowed hard. "Now really," he mumbled.

Crowley made an expression that was a smile only in name. He said, of course, nothing.

Aziraphale felt Crowley watching him and looked up at him, meeting his gaze. For a moment, he glowered. And then he sighed, sadly, and his eyes fell.

Crowley's smile slipped. That— that wasn't the reaction he'd anticipated.  _ Not disdain, _ he heard again, and his useless heart skipped a few beats. And then a few more for emphasis. It should have been easy to remain silent, after so many years practicing not saying the things that mattered. It wasn't.

The other three struck up conversation, occasionally trying to draw Aziraphale and Crowley in. Aziraphale didn't really feel like talking, not while he was sitting across from Crowley and unable to speak to him. He regretted everything that had been said back in the fourteenth century.

Crowley did his best to partake in the others' chatter while pretending he couldn't feel Aziraphale's stare. If Aziraphale wanted things to be different he was perfectly capable of saying so himself. He'd made it exceedingly obvious that Crowley had no right to try tempting him anymore. So why was he such a horrible temptation himself? Crowley laughed at Ahmet's jokes and he definitely didn't check to see if Aziraphale laughed at his.

Aziraphale only smiled at most of the jokes, feeling profoundly left out while everyone talked around him. He wished they could be alone. Maybe then he could try and fix what he had broken. He kept glancing at Crowley, watching him absorb into the conversation. Was it so easy for him?

Crowley was in agony. Actual Hell could (and would) do well to take pointers on dinner conversation. At some point he would snap. Eventually. Soon— Okay, now. He stood, made the expected bland excuse, and made his way out of the room as discreetly as he could.

Aziraphale blinked and watched him go. "I—"

"Well, that was kind of rude," Ahmet said.

Aziraphale stood. "So sorry, chaps, I'll be seeing you." He hurried after Crowley.

Crowley leaned against the outer wall of the building. Great architects this empire had. Very sturdy walls. Stiff as the drinks they didn't have inside. He tipped his head back and stared at the evening sky, counting the first traces of stars, and thinking of anything but the scene he'd left behind.

Aziraphale came out and looked around, spotting Crowley standing there. He was frozen in place for a moment, unsure whether he should approach or not. The problem was, of course, he could never justify checking in on Crowley to Head Office. But— chances were, they weren't watching. Right? And Crowley looked so sad. 

He approached but kept a decent distance away, nervously twisting a ring around his finger. "Hello," he said, switching from the courtly Turkish to English. An olive branch.

For once, Aziraphale's presence took Crowley by surprise. He'd assumed the angel would remain at his post to do his duty as was proper. He had never thought he'd be followed out here. He caught his breath and opened his mouth to reply before catching himself.  _ Never  _ was a small word but a long time. What was another night? Two hundred years they'd gone without breaking down this new wall between them; why start now? He nodded to Aziraphale and resumed stargazing with a peculiar tightness in his chest. He wasn't good enough for Aziraphale (never would be, never could be) but he could be good at this silence thing. He'd never been good with words anyway.

"Crowley," Aziraphale said, deflating when he hardly even acknowledged his presence. "I'm—"  _ Sorry  _ wasn't safe to say. "Perhaps I was out of line earlier. I shouldn't have let them keep us. At that table. Together." Who would have thought an apology without using the word sorry, and without admitting what exactly he was sorry about, would be so hard? He reached out a hand, tentatively, but then retracted it.

Crowley saw the motion, peripherally, partially obscured by the arm of his sunglasses but he was sure he'd seen  _ something. _ Which made this almost an apology. An effusive one by Aziraphalian standards. Crowley pushed off from the wall to stand fully upright so he could face Aziraphale. Arms crossed, glasses up. Suitably armoured. Although really what good was armour when you already felt yourself bleeding out? "I take it I'm allowed to  _ speak  _ to you now?" he said icily.

Aziraphale frowned. "What?" he asked, having been under the impression that  _ Crowley  _ had decided to give him the silent treatment. He was grateful for the paces of empty air that separated them because Crowley’s gaze was so angry.

"You—" Crowley paused as his entire frame of reference for the past couple of centuries recalibrated. "You said— you... You  _ forgot?! _ You told me I was never to— You— And I  _ didn't, _ I fucking— You just..." He couldn't breathe.

"Forgot about  _ what?" _ Aziraphale demanded. Then as the words  _ you told me I was never to... _ sunk in, he suddenly remembered, and very nearly swore. "Is— is  _ that  _ why you haven't been speaking to me?" he asked. He smiled, because this misunderstanding was  _ so  _ ridiculous. And he was  _ so  _ relieved to have Crowley addressing him again.

Crowley bristled. "Well excuse the fuck out of me for doing what you said you wanted!" As he always did, as he always would.

Aziraphale’s little half-smile dropped. "Well, it's not  _ my  _ fault I forgot!" he retorted. He put his hands on his hips. It half-registered that Crowley had been obeying him. Had been  _ respecting  _ him, even though Aziraphale had stopped meaning what he said minutes after saying it. He swallowed as his throat tied up in a knot. He almost whispered, "Oh Crowley," but managed to cut himself off after the "Oh—"

"Sure. No, of course. Never your fault," said Crowley, and turned his head almost behind him to hide his face. What had he thought? An actual apology was forthcoming, from an angel, one who had shown him and  _ told  _ him again and again that it was never going to happen between them? Whatever  _ it  _ was. Whatever Crowley wanted  _ it  _ to be. Whatever they never, ever said out loud. The one thing he was extremely clear on was Aziraphale's position on the whole thing. Except— if he had simply forgotten— might that not mean he hadn't meant it? Hadn't intended Crowley to stay away all this time? He looked back, just for a second, before his nerve deserted him again. "Angel, I..."

Aziraphale almost rose and started shouting at him, but the way Crowley looked away from him, the defeated little way he spoke. Aziraphale bit down hard on his lip. "I didn't really mean for you to never speak to me again," he said, apologetically. "I was just... angry."

"I know," said Crowley, though he hadn't known it, because he'd hoped it when he couldn't force himself to think of other things. "So was I."

"Perhaps... well." He thought better of a proper offer. "Where have you been staying here? Are you here... long?" Aziraphale swallowed again. Was it safe to speak again? To spend time together again? Or would it inevitably devolve into another argument?

Crowley exhaled hard. "Haven't bothered to get myself a place yet, since I was just planning on passing through. Only the one assignment," he explained, because he never lied to Aziraphale, "something dreadful's supposed to happen at this event and they've got me planted here to... Dunno. Spread chaos or something. But I've got no reason to leave just yet."  _ Not if you'll be around, and if you're asking me to stay. _

"Oh," Aziraphale said, nodding. "Fascinating. I'm here for the same reason." He chuckled. Nervously. "I'm only staying for a little while. Just long enough to try the food. There's a lovely little hostel Mecnun set me up at. Not far from here."

"Have they got any openings, d'you think?" Crowley knew this might be getting too close, might be showing his hand. He backpedaled. "Or is there somewhere else you'd recommend?"

Aziraphale looked startled. "Oh, I'm not sure. I think there's probably a few, but I haven't been around, so I wouldn't really know what to recommend." Pointedly avoiding answering the question about rooms.

"Seems like this area's pretty full at the moment," said Crowley carefully, "what with all the delegates and bigwigs here for the party. Wouldn't be at all surprised if there were very few openings around." And if several of the hostels in question were to find themselves more booked than they'd expected, could anyone really complain? He'd tell Hell he was boosting the population density to increase spread of disease, they liked that kind of thing.

"It's a possibility," said Aziraphale. "Though you'd have to check." He told himself that the reason those hostels didn't magically open up or sprout new rooms was because he would be chastised for wasting a miracle.

"I'll be sure to do that," said Crowley, which was only a quarter of a lie, because he would look into one or two before heading over to Aziraphale's.

"Well," Aziraphale said, and took a moment to decide which second clause he should tack onto that. "You'll have to let me know." Here he was, opening a door again. Was that a good idea? Was it ever?

Crowley smiled. "I'll see you, then." It wasn't even a question. He nearly had chills from the daring of it.

Aziraphale smiled as well, but in anticipation for his own joke. "Well, I'd imagine we will, since we should be getting back inside." But still. He liked being out here in the warmth under the stars, being able to see Crowley smile at him again.

Ruefully, Crowley agreed, and they re-entered the hall. Ahmet was watching them with an expression Crowley could only hope Aziraphale didn't notice. Mecnun and Saaqib were engaged in a passionate argument about nothing in particular, and Crowley swiftly chose a side to back with no care for the content or context. The important thing was that things were right again. And he had plans for tonight.

Aziraphale sat down, listening with interest to the debate but not getting involved. He ate now, indulgently. He glowed, no longer worrying about Crowley's cold shoulder.

Halfway through dinner, however, there was a commotion as a couple of guards came in and threw a man to the floor. One straddled his chest, his fingers wrapped around his throat, though no one made much of a move to stop him. The other guards stood threateningly. 

Aziraphale took a few steps forward. "Shouldn't we help him?" he said to Crowley.

Crowley gritted his teeth. "I did warn you," he said, in English so the others wouldn't think he was in on whatever plot was going down in front of them. At Aziraphale's horrified look, Crowley scowled. "D'you think my job's pretty?"

Aziraphale looked up at him. But he knew, in that way he always knew, that his purpose here was not, in fact, to stop this gruesome event, but that it was to ensure it did happen. To  _ witness  _ it. Much like Crowley's purpose. He looked back at the scene, swallowing hard. 

The deed was done, and the guards dragged the corpse out of the room. The atmosphere was certainly killed by then— especially at a gathering that was as dry as the air outside— and Aziraphale started thinking of ways to say goodnight.

"I could... walk you back to your place," Crowley blurted. "I— Well, I can take a look at the other places tomorrow, really, much better idea if you think about it, what if they're all closed and I go all that way just to end up back at you— your place, I mean. S'really far more sensible to just go to the one tonight. There's always tomorrow."

Aziraphale was so thrown off by the sight he had seen he couldn't even conjure a proper excuse. Really, what he wanted  _ was  _ for Crowley to come. To share an over-taxed bottle of alcohol with him, and have some sort of normal. Tonight had been  _ very  _ exhausting for him. "Yes, alright," he said. 

He said goodnight to Ahmet, Saaqib, and Mecnun, thanked the host, and left back out onto the street.

The walk was tense. Crowley had had enough of silence between them but he couldn't think of what to say. Small talk would be unbearable, and anything else was too true. Too much. It was a relief when the hostel came into view. If they were finished walking side by side he could relax his hyperawareness of his arms and the way they came so close to Aziraphale's as they moved.

As they came into the hostel, Aziraphale stepped aside. "I'll let you get situated with a room," he said. "And then, perhaps we could have a drink upstairs." He tried a smile, all too aware of how tense the walk had been. Was this a terrible idea?

"Yeah," said Crowley, nodding just a little too fast, "sounds great, I'll be right up." He approached the man who seemed to be in charge of the rooms and attempted to get hold of one, only to find that perhaps his miraculous subterfuge had been slightly too successful. They had no open rooms.

"Are you sure?" he asked, wondering if he could finesse another miracle, and if not, how disappointed Aziraphale would be. But that way lay madness. "Could you... check again?" He was acutely aware that Aziraphale had not yet left the room.

Aziraphale stood slightly to the side, since Crowley would have no way of knowing which room was his, and frowned. Oh. He deflated somewhat. How unfortunate, Crowley would have to go somewhere else and he was probably very tired. Crowley didn't  _ need  _ to sleep, of course, but it  _ was  _ a habit of his.

"I'm sorry, we are full. But if your friend here is already staying with us, we could allow you to join him in his room for no extra charge," the man said, and Crowley's heart gave a very unpleasant jolt. There was  _ no way  _ Aziraphale would agree to it. But what if he did?

Aziraphale swallowed hard, at war with himself over whether or not to speak up and shut it down, or let Crowley say so. Surely he wouldn't— unless?

"Oh, that seems like the kind of thing he'd need to decide, not me," said Crowley, turning to Aziraphale, heart in his throat. He knew he was being unforgivably transparent here. This was hardly the kind of thing Aziraphale could rationalize himself into. Crowley could toss him a few suggestions of how to spin it, but that would require a much more open acknowledgement than what they had going. He couldn't say,  _ Hey, angel, I know you think this is wrong, so here's some reasons you can tell yourself it isn't wrong so you can do it anyway, because you want to. _ If he wanted to. That sort of thing was Crowley's specialty, but only because he could get away with misdemeanors. He could excuse all kinds of behavior. The standards were higher for those who still had something to lose. So although it made him clench his entire body in anticipation of rejection, Crowley would relinquish this choice. It was up to Aziraphale. If he chose to turn this down, Crowley would head off into the night like he'd planned in the first place. No loss. He wouldn't be angry; he didn't want a repeat of the fourteenth bloody century. No. He was going to be calm about this. If Aziraphale didn't answer soon, though, Crowley might explode.

Crowley's lack of an answer was all the answer Aziraphale needed. Crowley  _ wanted  _ to, which was terrifying. Despite his shoddy memory of the conversation, the words  _ What sort of tempting are we talking about here? _ came back with frightening clarity. He swallowed. "Surely there are other hostels in the area?" he asked. He couldn't just say yes. It would be as good as blasphemy.

Crowley took the tiniest of steps backward, but before he could say anything, the manager said, "Oh come now! None that will offer free lodging with a friend, surely! You cannot send him out into the night like this when we're offering you such generous conditions. Why, there could be all sorts out there."

Crowley narrowly prevented himself from saying something stupid about how Those Sorts were generally his type of people. He waited.

Aziraphale swallowed. "Well, surely we could just discuss it over a drink," he said, his voice trembling and unsure. He most certainly could turn Crowley out into the dark. In fact, it would be expected of him. But there was no one else here. Everyone had gone to bed. But... then again. Aziraphale didn't often make a habit of sleeping. Surely there would be no harm?

"Excellent!" said the manager, which was maybe an exaggeration, Crowley felt, but appropriate nonetheless. Aziraphale wasn't kicking him out. Aziraphale was bringing him up to his room. For drinks. In the dark. Alone together. In a hostel he wasn't even meant to be at.

"We could," Crowley said, trying to remember how lungs were meant to work, and if it mattered, and which way was up.

Aziraphale turned and, clenching one hand to keep from trembling, led Crowley upstairs to his room. He lit the fire idly with a wave of his hand and took out a few glasses and a bottle of alcohol, all too aware of the bed and trying to avoid going near it, as if separating himself physically from it would make it any less solitary and real.

It was, Crowley was intensely aware, a room intended for one occupant. One table. One chair. One— of everything, no need to list them all out. But the single chair was providing an issue. He could drink standing, sure, but...

"Mind if I sit?" he said, taking himself entirely by surprise, and then sat down on the edge of the bed without waiting for an answer because his knees had given out.

Aziraphale turned around and saw that Crowley was already sitting. On the bed. He swallowed again. The fire seemed to make the place too warm. He crossed the room and sat in the chair. He poured the glasses. It was the polite thing to do to give Crowley his glass, but Aziraphale didn't think he could trust his legs to carry him that far. Into that space.

Crowley held out his hand for the drink and forced himself to drink it slowly. He was only here to discuss. Over drinks. Finishing the alcohol would mean this was over. He didn't want it to be over. Fuck, it was hot in here. "So," he said, trying not to remember the last conversation they'd had like this. This one wouldn't end like that. It wouldn't.  _ Please. _

"You'll probably want to go find another room, at another hostel." Aziraphale knew that was a lie, but what else could he say? "But I don't see why we couldn't share a drink first. Since it's been so long."

"It has." And whose fault was that? But Crowley accepted it anyway, because that's what he always did, taking the scraps of an almost-admission as an almost-admittance. Aziraphale would never say the things Crowley wanted to hear and he wouldn't let him in, but the infinitesimal moments like these— Crowley could pretend. He was very good at pretending. Pretending that he didn't mind, pretending that he didn't care, pretending that it didn't hurt to be shut out so consistently. If times like this were all he could get, he'd take them, and pretend they were enough.

"How have you been then?" Aziraphale asked. It was still so tense, and he knew it was his fault. He knew he had done this. But what could he do? How could he fix it without disobeying?

"Oh..." Crowley shrugged. "Can't complain myself. Downstairs liked the plague. Your lot liked the holy wars, I take it? Long casualty list."

Aziraphale made an uncomfortable noise in his throat. "Yes, well.  _ Head Office _ certainly did. I mostly... tried to help. Curb the damage, as it were."

"That's the sort of policy going out now, hm?" Crowley hadn't really been around for the Crusades much. Too bloodthirsty, too religious, not enough room for nonlethal temptations. But the things he had seen weren't likely to be forgotten soon. He'd reported on the ugliness of human nature to Hell and they'd been pleased enough that he could get away with not delving any deeper. Still, Crowley caught himself before he could indulge in any further complaints, before they could round the corner into blasphemy and get him thrown out of the room. "Make any new friends?"

"No," Aziraphale said. "I uh, regret to say I didn't spend as much time out as my superiors may have liked." He was perfectly happy to stay inside most of the time no matter what.

"Read anything nice, then?" said Crowley, figuring there were only so many indoors activities Aziraphale would have been interested in.

"Well there was a fascinating epic about a young knight and his lover," he said. "Though I suppose most academics wouldn't consider it an epic, seeing as it broke many of the genre rules. It was lovely though."

_ Read me poetry? _ Crowley remembered asking, and Aziraphale had said something almost like an agreement, so he said now, "Care to recite a bit?"

"Oh, well, I don't know about  _ recite," _ Aziraphale said, turning a rather beautiful colour. He stood up and went to his bags stacked in the corner. Out of it he drew a thick book that was already crumbling from use. He brought it over to the table and opened it. He searched through it for a long moment. He finally started speaking, "Ah, this is from the fourth canto in the second book." He cleared his throat. "'Love, that two hearts makes one, makes eke one will...'" He read for a few minutes, enough to get through the scene, and when he finished, he looked up at Crowley, smiling and practically glowing in the low light.

_ Most joyous Man, on whom the shining Sun / Did shew his Face... _ Crowley knew the words meant something different in context, but... He cleared his throat. Aziraphale's beauty was almost painful.  _ The gnawing Anguish and sharp Jealousy. _ Poets and their blasted insights. "Can see why you like it," Crowley said, as casually as he could.

"Oh yes, it's very romantic. And noble, too. The Redcrosse Knight is such a wonderful character." He shut the book and returned it to its place. As he sat again, he became keenly aware of the way Crowley was looking at him, even though he couldn't see his eyes.

Crowley would replay Aziraphale's voice saying  _ romantic  _ for the rest of time. "Could do without the dragon slaying," he said, "especially as I think that one was meant to be me."

Aziraphale smiled. "Well it was more representative of a larger sin, but I suppose you're right, at that. But that's medieval Christian poets for you, isn't it." This time, without thinking, he crossed the room and refilled Crowley's glass. He realized what he had done after the pouring and hurried back to his seat.

"Big snakish thing that ruined Eden, I think I'll stick with my stake on the thing."

He nodded, a half grimace, lip-biting gesture. "Fair enough." He sat, and stared into his cup.

"Everything alright?" Crowley asked, like there could possibly be anything right about this situation.

"Oh yes," he said, smiling. "Absolutely alright. Erm." He took a long drink. "Have you tried the, uh— gözleme? It's wonderful."

"Can't say that I have." Crowley had. But saying that would shut down the possibility of Aziraphale's inviting him to try it together, so he couldn't say that, so it wasn't a lie.

"Well perhaps I could tempt you to—"Aziraphale stopped. Not just because that was Crowley's job, but because any talk of tempting one another sounded dangerously like that  _ other  _ conversation. "Perhaps sometime we could get some together."

Crowley noticed the cutting off and he knew what it meant. "Told you already my schedule's free," Crowley said. "Next up's something in Munster and I've got plenty of time before then."

"Well, I don't have to be back in England until December," he said, feeling out of breath for no reason. He tried another smile. Surely some lunch wasn't any worse than sharing a room at a hostel? Gathering intel. That's what he was doing. Obviously.

Nine months. Crowley could stay in Constantinople a few months without raising suspicions. And if he headed over to London next year, what of it? He had things to get done for non-business reasons, didn't he? Busy man, Anthony Crowley. "Lunch tomorrow?" he said, hoping that wasn't too soon, and trying not to think about the span of time from now until tomorrow.

"I don't see why not," Aziraphale said, smiling. What was lunch? A trifle. He decided he wasn't going to think about the fact that they had had dinner together that night, and Crowley was now sitting on his bed— still made, as Aziraphale had not used it— and had no intention of leaving unless Aziraphale asked him to. Though he had not said so, Aziraphale could tell. It had been established downstairs, and perhaps even earlier: their relationship was fitted around Aziraphale. Crowley was a demon. He could spin practically anything as  _ corrupting an angel _ to Downstairs. The same could hardly be said of Aziraphale. The archangels did not believe in redeeming a demon. Once a Fallen, always a Fallen.

Crowley lifted his glass in celebration, and then swallowed it all down. They still hadn't settled on tonight's... plan. Situation. Every molecule in Crowley that was touching Aziraphale's bed was moving much too fast. If they didn't calm down he would evaporate on the spot.

Aziraphale finished his own cup and refilled it. "So... I think there might be a few hostels in the area. But they're not nearly as nice. Though I suppose perhaps that might be a benefit for you."

"I resent that," said Crowley lightly. "I take sleeping very seriously. Might be a creature of few comforts but I do insist on that."

"Oh yes, of course; I forgot you have such high standards for mattress quality. You might have a bit of a walk then, in that case."

Crowley groaned theatrically. "Course. Not like I've already walked for ages tonight." He had to joke about it because he could hardly say  _ Please don't make me leave. Please tell me you want me here. Let me stay.  _ Aziraphale was obviously regretting letting him take things this far already. Crowley stretched in preparation to standing up. There was nothing wrong with this mattress, except that it wasn't plural. "I guess I'll— be off, then."

"Oh, well, I don't think there's a need for that," Aziraphale said, too quickly. "Quite yet." He stood up, running his fingers along the rim of the cup. "Unless, of course. You're tired." Were it not for the limited amount of space, Aziraphale would have suggested he just stay here. He had no need for that bed. He could stay up all night and read. But... well. That was simply too much.

"S'been a long day," Crowley said, and what was wrong with him? Being tired meant  _ leaving. _ He bit his lip. "Could do with a bit more of that wine if you wouldn't mind sharing, though."

Aziraphale refilled Crowley's cup. "I wouldn't want to keep you." He knew Crowley didn't want to leave. But how could he justify letting him?

Oh,  _ that  _ was obvious. "Wouldn't want to be any trouble." They were almost at an agreement, really. A shame it was in the wrong direction.

"Oh you couldn't be any trouble," Aziraphale said, forcing his voice to be light. "It's not like I've got anything better to be doing. Well, save for some reading, but. I've got all night for that."

"Not planning on getting any sleep?" Best way to get the answer you want: ask questions you know the answer to. Crowley held his breath.

They both knew the answer. They both knew that they both knew. "No, no," said Aziraphale. "You know me. Not much of a sleeper." He stared down into his cup.

"Funny of you to need even the one bed, then," Crowley pointed out. He was intensely aware that he was on the verge of begging for the right to sleep in the same room as an angel who would not be sleeping. It was an act of vulnerability that was absolutely inexcusable. He wanted it anyway.

"Well, they don't have  _ bedless  _ hostel rooms," Aziraphale explained. He realized his heart was pounding, and immediately decided to stop his heart altogether to avoid thinking too hard about it. He crossed over to the fire and threw another small log into it. For the light, if not for the warmth.

Crowley watched the flames jump higher, as if the room needed it. He would have been sweating if he'd let his body do something like that. "So just to be clear," he said, "just so we're on the same page, yeah? You've got a bed. You don't need the bed. I don't have a bed. I need a bed. I'm here. The nearest other bed is a long way off. All true?"

Aziraphale took a sharp breath. He did not turn around. To see Crowley would render him real. He needed to keep him out of his line of sight, so he could be an abstraction, and therefore, not a threat. "Yes, I would say that was true."

"Aziraphale,"  _ please, _ "you know what I'm trying to say." _ Don't make me spell things out. You'll only be angry if I do. I'm not asking much. _ The English language— or any of the languages spoken here, really— there were so many words and yet of all the sentences Crowley formed without saying, the only one that mattered was  _ Please. (Min fadlik. Lütfen.) _ Which he couldn't say.

Aziraphale grimaced. "Well. I wouldn't want to turn you out," he squeaked. "It's so late, and who knows what you might encounter out there. And I'm not using the bed, after all." He had no reason to believe he was being watched. How could They know? What was the harm?

Crowley consciously relaxed his shoulders. "I wouldn't want to be turned out," he said, "so it looks like we're in a position to do one another a favour."

A  _ favour. _ An  _ arrangement. _ A push and pull, a  _ mutual relationship. _ All of that fit simultaneously so well but so poorly to what they were meant to be. Opposites, enemies, symbiotes, friends. "It seems we are." Aziraphale turned around and looked at Crowley, finally, the darkness almost making him blurry around the edges.

Aziraphale was glowing in the firelight and it was making Crowley's chest ache. "Then it's settled?" Because he had to be sure. He had to hear it.

"I believe so," Aziraphale said. He glanced between Crowley and the bed he would soon inevitably occupy. He decided not to think about the vulnerability of sleep. Of Crowley curled up with his hair on his face. He wondered what Crowley would look like: unguarded, comfortable,  _ soft. _

"Great." Crowley turned away. Should he stay up and suffer the agonies of casual conversation, or should he give in to the siren call of the pillows? And let Aziraphale watch him fall asleep. Crowley worked very, very hard not to imagine that. "You got any more of that drink?" he said, to put off the inevitable moment when he would have to lie in the bed he'd made (and fought for).

"Oh, yes," he said. He poured Crowley some more wine, topping his own off. The edges of his mind were starting to feel fuzzy, and he blinked a few times. He sat down again.

Crowley drank and he told himself it would help him sleep. He didn't tell himself anything about making it easier to be awake, but he knew. Sitting here was much simpler if he was only half in control. Aziraphale was drinking just as much as he was; if Crowley was light-headed, the angel would be too. Or— as much as the drink was to blame for it, instead of their proximity. There were times when Crowley couldn't be sure which got him drunker, wine or Aziraphale.

Aziraphale watched Crowley for a moment, taking a deep breath. He wanted to say something, but he had no idea what. He finished another glass. He watched him some more. He realized Crowley would have to take his glasses off to go to sleep. Aziraphale had seen his eyes before plenty of times, certainly, but not in a long time, not since he shut them behind tinted glass and withdrew inside himself.

There couldn't be much left in the bottle. Crowley idly toyed with the idea of refilling it, but discarded it as... dunno, something. Cowardly? Pointless? At some point, he'd have to sleep. So when his glass was emptied for the last time, he passed it back to Aziraphale— couldn't reach the table himself, and couldn't rely on his legs to support him if he stood now. For the three seconds during which they were holding the same glass, Crowley held his breath, but it seemed they were both being tremendously careful. There was no contact. He was relieved. He had to be relieved. Of course he was relieved. His hands were empty now and that was unacceptable, with so much energy buzzing through him— and how he was ever going to get to sleep was a mystery— but this was an issue he could fix. Crowley removed his sunglasses and held them in fingers that were trembling from alcohol and exhaustion and for no other reasons. He ducked his head; the firelight didn't really reach his side of the room much, but he knew his eyes tended to catch light. He didn't want Aziraphale seeing his eyes at a moment like this. Unguarded and sloppy and  _ wanting. _

Aziraphale watched him but did his best not to make it obvious. He could never make it obvious. He watched as Crowley's fingers trembled and removed his glasses. Aziraphale grasped his own fingers as they yearned for that touch. He cursed his treacherous corporation. 

He set the alcohol and the glasses at the far end of the table as he watched Crowley, those slender fingers touching the arms of his glasses. Aziraphale’s palms began to sweat, and he told himself it was because of the heat. It was summer in Turkey, after all, and there was still a fire going. 

"Well," he said, voice trembling, ever so slightly. "Good night, I suppose, dear boy." He swallowed hard, again regretting tacking on the last bit.

"Yup." So that was it. Crowley twisted until he was lying down and facing away from the light. Away from  _ him. _ He slid the glasses beneath the pillow and pulled the blanket out from beneath his legs. He closed his eyes. Aziraphale was right there. Crowley closed his eyes tighter. Sleep was absolutely impossible, but he could fake it if he had to. It was only one night. He was, after all, very good at pretending.

Aziraphale watched him, comfortable in the knowledge that Crowley could not see him watching. He watched him for a long time. He watched him until the fire died down. When the room grew too dark, Aziraphale realized what he had been doing. He built the fire back up and went to his bags, drawing out a book and sitting down with it. Every so often he glanced at Crowley's hunched form, imagining what his face might look like right now.

Crowley could hear movement from Aziraphale. There had been a long stretch of silence, and he didn't know what to make of that, but now there was the occasional sound of a page turning, which meant he wasn't being watched anymore. He stayed still anyway. Crowley wasn't sure how much Aziraphale knew about sleep; not being much for it himself didn't preclude his having gained an understanding from observing human behavior. Aziraphale might know something was wrong if Crowley didn't keep up the act. He wasn't sleeping, nor did he expect to be for quite some time, but he'd committed to pretending he had fallen asleep instantly. And now he had to keep it up, even if sometimes there was an inexplicably long pause between pages. It must have been a very engrossing book.

Aziraphale spent equal parts of the night reading and staring at Crowley, wishing he would turn over but pretending that he wasn't. As the sky began to lighten, Aziraphale closed his book and went downstairs to fetch them some breakfast. He came back with a plate of simit and a bowl of jam; some tomatoes, cucumbers, and olives; and sucuk. He set it on the table, considering whether or not to wake Crowley.

Crowley had, entirely by accident, actually fallen asleep. It was doubtful anything could wake him now, short of the hostel burning down around him. In fact, considering his place of work had a resting temperature in the Australian range, even that was doubtful.

Aziraphale wet his lips, twisting one of his rings around his fingers. He went over to Crowley, leaned over him for a moment. His hair curling around his temple, over his shoulders, splayed out on the pillow. His eyes shut softly. His mouth hanging open slightly. Aziraphale swallowed, his stomach in knots. Then, he took a step back and spoke. "Crowley?"

Nothing. If he could have seen himself, Crowley might have been horrified at how easily he was ignoring an angelic presence so close to him, or he might have been consumed with the urge to close the distance. But he was entirely unaware.

Another swallow. Well, he couldn't just let the demon sleep in his bed for the rest of eternity, could he? Aziraphale reached out and touched his shoulder. "Crowley?" And then, he nudged him slightly. "Crowley, dear, wake up."

Nope. Crowley moved, just slightly, at the touch. He even made a tiny grumbling sound. But he did not wake up.

Aziraphale sighed and shook him a little bit harder. "Crowley," he repeated, voice louder. "There's breakfast."

Crowley's dream now included rather more food than it had a moment ago, but still he did not open his eyes.

Aziraphale sighed. He then noticed a lock of hair that had fallen carelessly over Crowley’s nose. His mouth became very dry. He reached out, almost without thinking, and brushed it aside, back into place beside his ear. 

Immediately, his stomach turned over and he turned around, hurrying to the table as though he could avoid the reality of what he had just done. He considered praying, or asking the Almighty for forgiveness, but thought better of it.

Crowley was very good at sleeping. Championship ranked, really, if humans had ever put together competitions for slipping into low-level comas. He hadn't been planning on falling asleep at all this time, but now that he was out he had been fully intent on remaining unconscious until at least June. But something was different now, something that didn't happen when he was passed out alone. His nose twitched. Something had changed. Something was not in the place it had been before. He cracked open a single bleary eye to investigate and immediately remembered a lot of context all at once. He stiffened. Had Aziraphale noticed that he was awake? Had he been trying to wake Crowley? Was he still in the room? How much time had passed? Crowley smelled breakfast, which explained the dancing tomato he could recall from a minute or two ago, and which suggested Aziraphale was nearby. Crowley determined that he would stay as still as he could, but was betrayed by a tremendous yawn. Stupid bodies.

Aziraphale turned and saw Crowley yawn. "Oh, good morning," he said, pretending he had not been touching him, watching him, just moments ago. He did his best to wipe the gorgeous way Crowley looked in the morning light from his mind. He reminded himself of the impossibility of there ever being a  _ them, _ an  _ us. _

"What's good about it," grumbled Crowley. He wasn't a morning person. Wasn't technically any kind of person. Wasn't a morning demon, then. He swung his legs to the floor and sat up, retrieving the sunglasses from under the pillow and slipping them on before he could do anything stupid like make unprotected eye contact in the glare of the morning sun. "S'any of that for me or were you planning on eating it all?"

"Well of course there's some for you, dear boy." He gestured to the plates. "Sleep well?"

"How long's it been?" How long had he been taking up space in Aziraphale's living quarters? Had he slept through their lunch date? "Anything under a week is a nap, you know."

"Well, I'd say it was just after ten in the morning, so I suppose it was rather a cat nap," Aziraphale said. He nearly shivered at the possibility of having Crowley in his room sleeping for upwards of a week.

Crowley yawned again, on purpose this time, to buy himself a moment to consider whether or not to push his luck with the next sentence. It wasn't enough time to talk himself out of it. "Still on for lunch today, then?" he said, and stole an olive from the plate. It wasn't stealing if Aziraphale had told him to take it, but he had a reputation to think of.

"Oh, I don't see why not," Aziraphale said, though the proximity felt like a mistake. He didn't think he would be able to bear it if he saw Crowley's shoulders drop, if he heard that disappointed little waver in his voice. So he would pretend as though everything was fine. He would eat lunch with Crowley and he would smile like his fingers didn’t burn with the memory of his hair, his skin.

It felt dangerous to smile, but Crowley did it anyway. What was the point of being damned if a little fear was going to stop him from doing stupid, self-destructive things? Like go out for meals with the Opposition. Like sleep in the same room as one of That Side. Like imagine he'd been woken by Aziraphale's coming near him, even though when he'd opened his eyes Aziraphale was still at the table where he'd been all night. "Any place in particular you'd like to try?" he said; better to let Aziraphale lead when it came to things like this. Food, and outings that weren't dates, and most conversations. Always safer to let the angel lead the way, that's what they were for. Messengers of a divine and righteous path. Crowley couldn't very well tread a righteous path or along one, but he could trail vaguely behind if it meant keeping this up.

"Well, there's a lovely little place not far from here I'd want to try," said Aziraphale, settling into that comfortable distance they had been occupying for millennia and would occupy for millennia more. He would eat and he would forget the look of Crowley's lips half parted, the way he curled, snakelike, attracted to the sunbeams across the bed. He would eat and he would pretend, as always. He led Crowley from the hostel and to the restaurant. It was a quaint little place and despite the fact that Aziraphale had said it wasn't far, it was after the midday prayer that they arrived.

Crowley chose the seats, settling into a position that afforded him a view of the place with his back against a wall. Ever-vigilance was more of a heavenly thing, supposedly, but evil did like to keep itself on its toes. Especially evil that couldn't be caught out on the town with good. A quick scan of the room showed no immediate danger and so Crowley allowed himself to relax the tiniest bit. As much as he ever could. They ordered and waited for the food to arrive.

Aziraphale played with a frayed seam on his right sleeve, unsure what to talk about. It seemed almost odd, to not know how to proceed, what to fill their hours together with. He wasn't used to being speechless around him.

"What's in December?" Crowley said suddenly. "That brings you back to England."  _ Sends  _ you back, fuck, shouldn't have said it like that, like he's coming towards you. "Something for the job, or...?"

"Oh, well, no, I have an appointment," he said. "I have a friend who is visiting England for a conference. A man by the name Nicolaus. He has some very interesting ideas about astronomy. Years ahead of his time."

"Thought he was in... whatsit. Prussia. Poland. Something like that. Starts with a P anyhow. Least he was when I met him. Clever guy, yeah."

"Well he lives there, yes, but he's visiting. There's a small meeting and he's going to talk about his most recent theories." The realization that Crowley knew him as well sunk in. "Are... you going to be at that conference too?"

Crowley swallowed. He'd never mentioned his... affinity for astronomy to Aziraphale. He wasn't much for discussions of Before. But he did have a habit of showing up at this sort of thing; he liked seeing humans figure things out, come closer to things he'd known for ages already— but  _ they'd  _ gotten there just by looking. Curiosity, ingenuity, knowledge— Crowley didn't quite give himself credit for these things, but it couldn't exactly be denied that a certain fruit had had some bearing on humanity's pursuit of them. There were hardly any meetings like this one he hadn't gone to. If Aziraphale was going to be there... It wasn't like he was changing his plans to follow. "Yeah, was thinking about it."

"Oh," he said. "I had no idea you had an interest in philosophy and astronomy." Really, he didn't know very much about what Crowley liked to do, besides skulk and tempt and drink. Perhaps he didn't really know much about Crowley at all.

"We don't make small talk," Crowley said. "Business arrangement, m'sure you remember." That's all this was.

"We make small talk rather often," said Aziraphale, defensively. "You just don't talk about yourself." He paused. That probably wasn't very nice. "Well, what I mean to say is— well. I wish you had expressed it sooner."

Crowley was taken aback. Aziraphale was... inviting him to… what? To talk about things that weren't strictly professional? It shouldn't have meant much, but— There was no Heavenly reason for Aziraphale to learn this sort of thing about Crowley. Likes and dislikes. Interests. It was... nice.  _ Risky, _ his traitorous mind whispered.  _ Shut up, _ he told himself. It could be played off as reconnaissance, maybe, and maybe that was even why Aziraphale was asking, but it felt an awful lot like friendship. "You know now," he said, and shrugged.

"Well... I'm more or less curious about what you think." Aziraphale leaned forward in interest. But... well it seemed like Crowley didn't really want to talk about it. He bit the inside of his cheek, hoping he wasn't visibly deflating.

"Think about what? Copernicus?" Crowley watched Aziraphale, who seemed to be growing disinterested. Regretful, maybe. "I've got plenty of thoughts, angel, you'll have to be more specific."

"Well, what do you think about his theories? I mean, obviously we know he's right, but what do you think of his methods? What do you think it will mean for him and the rest of the humans?"

"I think if he's believed they'll figure out how to learn more, faster. Once they get started on the whole outer space thing— well, there's loads up there to discover and to study, and if they're drawing the line between the heavens and actual Heaven they can start applying science instead of theology and actually get somewhere. There's so much they don't know, but Nick's right, they're trying to find out how much that is, and with his theories and other people joining in with other ideas and techniques and inventions, gosh, there might not be a limit to what they can learn. Wouldn't be surprised if they make it up there some day." Crowley drew breath. He hadn't expected to go on like that.

Something warm and wonderful bloomed in Aziraphale's heart. He stuffed it down once he realized that he was definitely staring at Crowley and smiled. "I didn't know you knew so much about the cosmos," he said, to avoid thinking about how lovely Crowley looked, how... well, so full of love he was, in that moment. Perhaps it had never occurred to Aziraphale that Crowley was so capable of love.

Crowley ducked his head. "S'just... a hobby." He didn't know how to say why. Didn't know how to fit words to the messiness of Then And Now. "You've got your things and I've got mine."

"Well certainly, but I'm all talk about mine. How come you never talk about yours?" Even in relatively decent moments, when their minds weren't occupied by  _ can't _ and  _ shouldn't _ and  _ demon _ and  _ angel _ and  _ forbidden... _ Crowley rarely spoke of himself.

_ Because there's only one thing I really care about, and you won't let me admit that. _ "Not much to it, I'm afraid. Just some old stars. Bits of light in the sky, not especially interesting to someone like you, I'd have thought."

"Well, I hardly doubt any of my hobbies are all that interesting, but you listen all the same." Aziraphale fought a smile at how warm that made him feel. "I think they're wonderful. The stars, that is. Masterfully hung."

"They don't  _ hang  _ anywhere. Unless being suspended in a void counts. Massive fusion reactors of plasma hotter than anything you can imagine, and you're talking about them like a child's mobile... Like they do. S'why our Nick's so exciting. Brilliant man like him putting forth ideas to a community for review and analysis? This lot have never done things that way, far as I can tell. And he's  _ right, _ so they'll have to agree, and then what? Observation-based models of the universe... It's unprecedented." Crowley paused. "Guess I should tell you something about how it'll mean they'll be relying less on faith and more on fact, which is good for my Side. Nonbelief. Direct ticket, or so you'd have them think."

"Oh, so is that why you're so interested in science?" Aziraphale asked, starting to smile for real now. "So they'll turn away from Faith?" Admittedly, the thought of humanity advancing because of the work of one man was something lovely. Aziraphale figured that was how he justified what had happened in Eden.

"Mmm. S'what I put on the forms anyhow. Don't tell me Heaven approves of your torrid affair with... supplemental reading?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Heaven doesn't really mind what I read," he said. "So long as the blessings get done. I tell them I'm learning more about humanity." Aziraphale was distinctly aware of his blush, and that odd pause halfway through that last sentence. He pretended not to notice.

"Funny, it's almost the same on my end." Crowley flashed a grin to diffuse the significance of that. "'Learning more about humanity' is an infernal cause when your goal's to go about making things worse for them. Science, poetry— when you stand far enough away it's pretty much the same."

"Science and poetry?" He chuckled. "They seem almost  _ too  _ different, my dear."

Crowley sat back in his seat. He couldn't pin down what was in that statement to make him feel like this— hurt and bewildered like his umbrella had turned inside out at the peak of a storm. It was, after all, only a fact. He liked facts. Hadn't he just been extolling the power of facts? And yet. He bit his tongue. "I guess," he muttered. Aziraphale either didn't understand because he couldn't or because he wouldn't, and neither of those was something Crowley could fix. "Opposite sides of the spectrum, really."

"Well, yes, but I've met plenty of poets who practice science, and many scientists who have dabbled in poetry. They're not mutually exclusive." Aziraphale smiled up at the kind young man who brought them their food.

Safe behind sunglasses, Crowley stared. Then he said, "But that was  _ my _ point. About— about humans, and expression, and creativity and curiosity and all that— and you said it was a load of bunk, and now you're taking it back. Agreeing with me..." He tsked. "Not very righteous." He hoped it wasn't too soon to make that sort of joke; he hoped Aziraphale would be ready to take it in stride. If things broke apart again, already, not even 24 hours after two hundred years...

"Well, I just meant they're not almost the same, even if you stand far away," Aziraphale explained, with difficulty. "They're much too different for that. It would be an oversimplification. I think all poets can benefit from science, and all scientists can benefit from poetry. Oh, there's this lovely Chinese philosophy on the subject."

Something deep inside Crowley found it couldn't argue with that sentiment. "A middle ground." Neutral territory. A compromise. A balance struck.

"A give and take," Aziraphale agreed, nodding sagely. An Arrangement. "This is exactly why I think you should read more poetry, dear boy."

Crowley hissed. "I've got my reputation to uphold, angel. S'one thing to listen to someone read a bit, and another to go read the stuff myself."

Aziraphale hummed and sent him a sidelong glance. "Oh yes, of course," he said sarcastically. "We mustn't tarnish your demonic reputation."

He could have pointed out the hypocrisy of Aziraphale's insistence on maintaining a shiny clean angelic reputation, but the cases weren't perfectly comparable. There was only so much Hell could do to him if he went soft. There were no such limitations to Heaven's power, or imagination, or cruelty. Or, theoretically, its mercy, but Crowley didn't have much faith— in that or anything else. As had been made obvious over the centuries, both of them knew the sort of thing that happened to angels who didn't keep up their reputation. Crowley couldn't have that. Aziraphale would hate to be like him. So he only said, "Then we're on the same page."

"I'm not sure we could ever be on the same page," he said. "Seeing as you're so against anything that might make you seem the slightest bit good.  _ Heaven forbid." _

"Yes, literally," said Crowley. He clenched a fist in his lap, then forced himself to open it. "Your food's getting cold."

Aziraphale smiled at the reminder and started eating, letting the conversation drop, since his attention was focused on food almost exclusively.

Crowley watched Aziraphale bring the fork to his lips, watched Aziraphale close his eyes with the pleasure of it, and then he looked away. He supposed he ought to have something himself, seeing as they were meant to be having lunch together, but he didn't feel like eating, so he slid the plate across the table.

Aziraphale looked down at the plate. "Not hungry, dear?" he asked. He watched Crowley looking around. Not like he was bored, necessarily, just that he was — curious? Uncomfortable?

"Nn. Just woke up, y'know."

"You woke up a few hours ago, Crowley," he said, raising his eyebrows. Although he supposed the concept of a few hours didn't make much of a difference.

"So long already?" Crowley supposed time was like that sometimes. He shrugged. "Are you going to take the plate or not?"

"Well… only if you don't want it," said Aziraphale. That was the nature of their relationship: Aziraphale asked him to dinner, Crowley would eat a bite or two, and Aziraphale would finish both their plates while the demon stared at him or around the place. It was an odd little ritual, but he supposed he couldn't complain.

"Wouldn't offer if I wanted it myself," Crowley said, impatient as though it were remotely true.

"We did come so you could try it," Aziraphale said, quirking an eyebrow like a disappointed schoolteacher.

Crowley narrowed his eyes. "One bite," he conceded, and had one. Dust, like he'd expected, like always. "Don't care for it myself. Have at it."

Aziraphale hummed and pulled the plate completely over to his side and set about eating it. Watching Crowley and pretending he wasn't. Wondering what Crowley was thinking about, as he often did.

Crowley watched Aziraphale and wondered if he could tell. It had been a long time since he could sit across a table from Aziraphale, last night's debacle aside. If they were back to normal, or whatever passed for it between them, did he dare voice the next thought? He opened his mouth, changed his mind, tried again, gave up, and then said it anyway. "Given any more thought to— the arrangement we... agreed on?"

Aziraphale paused mid-bite, fork still in his mouth. He took a long moment. Chewed. Swallowed. "I haven't given it much thought, no," he said. "But I didn't really have much of a reason to."

Well, that hurt. Crowley hadn't expected Aziraphale to— to care about their—  _ It's not a relationship—  _ their business meetings as much as he did, but to have confirmation that he hadn't even crossed Aziraphale's mind in all that time... Not in hundreds of years. That's where he ranked. Out of sight, and all that. Worse still was the thought that Aziraphale had assumed they really would never see one another again. Crowley couldn't imagine that, try as he might, and he had tried diligently over the years. "Right. The... argument. Yeah. But if that's over—?"

"Is there a temptation you're about to ask me to perform?" Aziraphale asked, filling in what he believed to be the other half of that sentence. He hadn't had a reason to think about the Arrangement, of course; but that wasn't to say he hadn't thought about  _ Crowley. _ After the initial anger had faded, he just got profoundly sad. Every time he saw red hair, or someone wearing dark glasses. Although he would deny it, Crowley occupied a great deal of his thoughts.

Crowley cast his mind about to recall something he could have been working on. Because of course it was impossible that Crowley would be offering his own services without a counteroffer on hand. That would be absurd. "If you're not saying no, should I take that as a good sign? Mm. Bad sign? Evil sign. Good sign for evil."

"I never said I wasn't saying no," replied Aziraphale. "I just can't imagine what it is that brought the subject to mind, is all."

_ Having you here. Wanting to keep you here. _ "Nothing important," Crowley said. "I do have something small next month, though. Some... Danish succession dispute."

"And, what, you'd rather stay here?" he asked. He had no idea Crowley was so attached to Constantinople.

"I only meant... If you've got business with the Swedes or something..."

He rolled his eyes. "Alright, Crowley, if it's that important to you," he said, smiling.

An actual agreement. Incredible. "Anything you'd like me to get done while you're handling that?"

"Well, there's going to be a shift in power in France come October. It would certainly be easier to get back to London from Denmark next month than France in October..."

"Then you want me to cover France? I could do France, they liked me well enough last time. Still a Charlie on the throne?"

Aziraphale made a face. "No, a Henry is due to assume in a few months. That's what I'm supposed to be there for."

"Shake hands, give the people assurance of divine right, that sort of thing?" Crowley smirked, recalling the last time the two of them had discussed the institution of monarchy. "Not too far off, then, were they."

"No, I suppose they weren't." Aziraphale rolled his eyes. He gave it a moment of thought. "I'm not entirely sure what is meant to happen, but the memo implied it to be gruesome. It's best you go, anyway. You know I don't have the stomach for that sort of thing."

"'Not much of a fighter,' yeah, I know. Then it's a deal?" Crowley stuck his hand out, and then froze, remembering vividly the last time he'd done that, five hundred odd years ago. This was a mistake. It was too late to pull back, though; Aziraphale had seen.

Aziraphale looked at the hand, amused. "A deal might get you a few too many compliments on your next report, dear boy," he said with a hint of irony. Despite this, he shook Crowley's hand, not remembering, of course, the last time.

Shaking hands was not holding hands. Logically, Crowley was aware of this. It didn't help, though, because his nerves were screaming. He hadn't had this much skin-on-skin contact with Aziraphale since... Nope. Ever. He'd never been in physical contact with him this long before. Crowley's mind raced to catalogue the softness of Aziraphale's skin against his, the pressure of his fingers, the exact feeling of this moment before it would break. What had changed since 1020? Why was this time different? Crowley didn't usually sweat; it wasn't something he considered a perk of the human body. But his palms were sweating now— of course, typical— so he finished the handshake quickly and pulled away. As surreptitiously as he could, he slid his shaking hands along his clothes beneath the table to wipe them. "Great. Wonderful." He blinked. "I'm not putting this on any reports, you know. I wouldn't."

"Well, I would certainly hope not," Aziraphale said, oblivious as ever. "I'm not sure even you could spin this sort of thing to your superiors."

"Don't challenge my spin skills," said Crowley, only half-jokingly offended. "What if I tried it just to prove you wrong?"

"Oh— don't you dare," Aziraphale said seriously. "We've no idea if our Sides are in communication for this exact reason."

"Thought I just told you I wouldn't," Crowley said, and then lowered his voice. "Honest. I—"  _ I know the stakes here, angel, I know what this means. You're not the only one who's scared. You're not the one who sees exactly what we're risking. _ "I know. I wouldn't."

"Well," Aziraphale said, sensing the sudden tension. "Good that we're both on the same page in that particular department." Lord knew that was about as far as it went. Most of the time, they weren't even reading the same book. They were in rivaling libraries.

Crowley didn't know what to say to that. It seemed to him that the words were weirdly familiar. Something Aziraphale had said... Just today, even... Why was it that he could perfectly recall things they'd said to each other for millennia, but in the course of their sitting here he could forget how they'd begun the conversation?

"Is there anything I can get you?" Aziraphale asked, as Crowley had, as yet, eaten very little and had nothing but water to drink. While he didn't often eat, he did like to have something to sip. "Some boza, perhaps?"

"I'm surprised at you, Aziraphale. It's not 5 o'clock yet, is it?" Crowley said. "And yes."

"It's not all that alcoholic," he said, rolling his eyes. "Nothing like what we were drinking last night, at any rate." Aziraphale waved down a server and ordered some for the both of them. They likely wouldn't be serving it if it were all that alcoholic, anyway.

Last night. Curled beneath Aziraphale's sheets and staring at Aziraphale's wall and listening to Aziraphale's breathing. There was no reason at all to believe Aziraphale had ever used the bed himself, but Crowley couldn't help thinking maybe this was the same place he'd lain himself down for a rare sleep. It wasn't impossible. To have shared the same space, occupied the same position in the universe for a moment. "Mm. Good thing hangovers are optional." And that he'd fallen asleep before he could spend all night driving himself mental with wild speculations and stupid, stupid hopes.

Aziraphale chuckled. "Oh yes, that would be just awful," he said. These corporations were at times inconvenient, but most of the things that plagued humans could be wished away with a bit of Effort. A thought occurred to him. "Have you, er—" He second-guessed bringing it up at all. "Have you given any thought to your sleeping situation tonight?"

Crowley's blood ran cold. "Not yet." He forced a smile. "I could go around today to the other places you mentioned. See if they've got any openings."

"I'll go with you, if you like. Keep you company. I don't think I have anything else to do. Besides perhaps debate with Saaqib for hours, which… I'm always willing to do, but— Well... we haven't seen each other in a while, you and I."

"I wouldn't want to impose," Crowley said slowly. What was Aziraphale doing? It was true that it had been a long time, but that was at his insistence. Or— he'd forgotten, hadn't he, hadn't Aziraphale told him he didn't remember telling him never to speak to him again? So he couldn't have meant it. And if Aziraphale didn't really want to never see him again... And now he was inviting himself along to spend more time with Crowley... He didn't feel the same way, of course, that was impossible for at least six different reasons off the top of Crowley's head (he'd drawn up the full list once and immediately destroyed it, but the items were irrevocably burned into his brain). Angels did not feel like this about demons. Demons generally returned the favour, but Crowley had wrestled with this particular feeling long enough to be unable to deny its veracity. So. Aziraphale wanted to stay with him. It wasn't l— it wasn't what Crowley wanted it to be, but it could be friendship. He could take friendship; it was already more than he thought possible. "You're, er, welcome to tag along, but. Dunno if I'll be pleasant company. And my hostel standards are high. Might take all day."

Aziraphale got the sense that Crowley didn't particularly want him around right then, so he more or less let it drop. "Well, if you'd rather go alone," he said, "I won't impose myself on you." Perhaps he was right, spending all this time together had to be dangerous.

"I didn't say that," said Crowley. "What part of  _ You're welcome to tag along _ meant I didn't want you—" he coughed— "with me?"

"Well, you didn't seem very pleased at the concept. But, if you won't mind."

There was absolutely no way to say  _ I always want you by my side, _ but he could come close. "I never turn down good company."

"Oh, so I'm good company now?" Aziraphale asked with an amused smile that he fought to keep away from the genuinely affectionate. "I wonder what that makes you."

"Bad company," Crowley supplied. "Evil company, really. 'The wrong sort to hang out with' company. 'That one's a bad influence and no mistake' company."

"You're good company to me," said Aziraphale, tentatively. "I'm quite possibly the only being in existence who is immune to your influences."

Crowley's heart fluttered. Actually fluttered. He made a mental note to talk to HR (Hellish Resources) about that sort of performance issue. "Flatterer," he told Aziraphale, and tried to disguise how much he wanted to hear it again. "Flattering yourself, more like."

He hummed. "You think I'd do something like flatter myself?" he asked, smiling. "I'm disappointed your opinion of me is so low."

"You'd never let me try anything," Crowley reminded him, "so how can you say you're immune? Never tempted you in my life. Persuasion, yes. Infernal abilities, no."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "You think I could be tempted?" he asked. "Somehow I doubt the Almighty would make angels vulnerable to demons." Perhaps he had never tempted him on purpose, but Aziraphale would be lying to himself if he were to say that he had never felt tempted by Crowley.

"Then what's the harm socializing with one?" Crowley mirrored his expression. "Why keep yourselves apart if you can't possibly be dirtied?" Not like demons could unFall by association.

"Obviously I'm not keeping us apart," he said. "I did just offer to spend the day room-hunting with you." He decided not to address the concept of being  _ dirtied. _ Aziraphale had never thought of himself as particularly clean to begin with.

"Two hundred years," Crowley muttered, but thought better of it, and said instead, "In that case, I accept your offer."

Aziraphale chuckled. "Well, once I'm finished with your plate, I'm sure we can find a room for you," he said. And then, he imagined, they would likely go their separate ways. He didn't think it was likely they would spend much more time together after this. It wasn't average for them.

Crowley caught some of what was going unsaid. Constantinople was a big city. Busy place. Lots to do, people to corrupt, beds to sleep in that weren't nominally angelic property. He'd find his own room and they wouldn't see one another again for another year or twenty or seventy. Or more. Seeing each other too frequently would start to look like they were seeking out the good and bad company, respectively, of each other's presence. Crowley pushed his sunglasses more firmly into place. "Yup."

Aziraphale hadn't caught on to Crowley's habit of saying little when he was upset. So he continued eating, and when the plates were empty, he dropped some money on the table and stood. He straightened his clothes. "Shall we then?" he asked.

"Oh— right now? Yeah. Um. Yeah, sure."

"Unless there's something you need to do first?"

Crowley spread his hands. "Blank slate."

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. Now he couldn't help but notice that there was something wrong, but an angel couldn't exactly ask a demon if he was alright. "Well, I suppose we could start with hostels and inns nearby."

Crowley stretched expansively and stood. "You'll have to show me where they are, then. Still new to the area myself."

"Yes, of course," he said. Aziraphale led Crowley out into the dry afternoon, shielding his eyes with his hand. He led him around, and with growing confusion found that every hostel and inn that had any measure of cleanliness was full or nearly full. "How bizarre," Aziraphale said. "There's never this many people in this city."

"Come for the dinner, stay for the murder mystery," Crowley suggested, unknowingly inventing a form of entertainment that wouldn't be prevalent for another few centuries yet.

Aziraphale frowned. "I don't—" He let it drop. "Well... I've no idea where you're going to sleep tonight."

"Well." Crowley bit his tongue so hard he should have envenomed himself.  _ Don't say it. _ If he offers, if he says it and not you— Don't say it.

"I wouldn't want to turn you out. And I haven't much need for my bed. Until we can find you a place. Or until I need to leave Constantinople. Whichever comes first."

Dizzying lightheadedness. Relief sharp like a knife between his ribs. "Oh," he said, unintentionally. Couldn't say thanks. Couldn't not say it. "S'pretty righteous behavior, playing host."

Aziraphale tutted. "Perhaps if you were someone else. This is simply dangerous." He started meandering back to the hostel he had been staying at. It was getting late by this point, so he was quite ready to settle in with some supper and a book.

But not too dangerous. Not dangerous enough to be worth saying no. The constant balancing act between them, the push-and-pull give-and-take back-and-forth that passed for stability. Crowley could live with that. The alternative was living without it. He said nothing, and followed Aziraphale back through the city in the last moments of direct sunlight.

"Care for a drink?" asked Aziraphale, heading up towards his room. His. Not theirs. That would be far, far too much.

"Always." It was settling in, now. The idea of spending another night in Aziraphale's room. In his bed. Crowley figured there had to be something wrong with him, to want this so badly, and then to be terrified at the prospect of getting anything like it. All he ever did was dream of moments like these and as soon as one arose he wanted to run as fast as his legs could carry him. Another night. Alcohol, absolutely, yes. That would help. If it didn't at least it wouldn't make things any worse. Spending the night (a second night) in Aziraphale's bed while Aziraphale sat at his table and ignored Crowley entirely, like it wasn't killing Crowley to be there and to be silent about it. He wouldn't wreck this if he could help it; he spent so much time being cautious not to say things. Things he meant but which would ruin that careful held-breath in-between of their... of this. Things Aziraphale didn't want to hear. Another night of telling himself he didn't wish things were different— which was no different than any other night, except in location. It was all just a question of location, really: Aziraphale's bed was, in practice, no more dangerous than any other in the city, in that it didn't have poisoned spikes embedded in the mattress. But thinking things like that were idle distractions from the real issues at hand. Crowley comforted himself with the idea that the manager may have upgraded Aziraphale to a two-bed room, but when Aziraphale unlocked his door they found it was not the case. Silly of him to have expected an extra bed to have materialized, really, but hope springs eternal. Crowley wasn't sure what he was hoping for. The tightness in his chest was more fear than happiness, but if he was honest (terrible habit) he knew he wasn't disappointed by this turn of events. "So. Alcoholic, I assume?"

"Yes, of course," Aziraphale said. He took out a bottle and a pair of glasses. He poured a liberal amount into each. He handed one glass to him and then went over to the window, opening the shutters and letting the outside air in.

"Nice night," said Crowley, because what else was there to say?

Aziraphale made a noise of agreement. "It is," he said. He glanced at Crowley out of the corner of his eye and felt something lodge into his throat. So much about this was wrong. He should feel wrong. Dirty. Tempted. And he did. Lord, he felt the temptation to slip away, to forego what he knew to be right and safe. He shook his head to clear it. If one night wasn't caught by Them, then what was two? He didn't know if he would be able to handle it if he had turned Crowley away again.

Was Aziraphale looking at him? Fuck, this was going to be a long night. Crowley gave up on trying to make the drink last, and held it out for more when it was empty.

Aziraphale filled it, still keeping his direct gaze away from Crowley. The look of his hair in the twilight was almost too much. Aziraphale held the bottle close to his chest for a moment before setting it down on the mantle again. He had to tell himself not to think about those things. He reminded himself of how dangerous it was.

Too soon, Crowley's glass was empty again. How many times would Aziraphale have to refill it before Crowley was able to crawl beneath the covers and put an end to consciousness? Not that today hadn't been... almost nice. Spending the day with Aziraphale was a rarity Crowley would have to treasure for the next span of time between run-ins. Crowley was used to holding on to memories. This, though... This was a lot more than usual, and Crowley was finding it hard to cope. More alcohol. Bed soon. No more words. No more wondering if Aziraphale  _ meant  _ to be glancing over that often.

Aziraphale filled the empty glass, but this time, he left the bottle. He didn't know if he could keep stepping into the proximity to fill the glass. How long had they been sitting in silence? How long had Crowley been watching it, unaware— hopefully— of how deliriously Aziraphale's thoughts spun through his mind? How much longer could it go on this way?

"I bet," said Crowley, startling even himself, "bet I  _ could  _ tempt you. 'F I wanted. Y'only  _ think  _ you're immune. I'm- I am a... I'm very powerful. Think I could do it." Oh, the alcohol was starting to hit, then. He tensed and watched Aziraphale, from behind the shelter of his sunglasses, for a reaction.

Aziraphale turned, too quickly, and— for lack of a better word— gawked. "Oh — er. I..." He swallowed hard and trailed off. "I really doubt it, dear boy. I'm not sure if you would even. Well, if you would. It might. Hurt, or. Something." He swallowed again, as though the feelings those statements brought up in him could be washed down his throat to be dissolved in his stomach.

"Don't be silly, it doesn't hurt. Wouldn't work on people if it hurt. They don't like that, mostly." Crowley leaned in, both physically and metaphorically. No use turning back now. "And if you really are immune, no harm done, right? No risk, if you're sure it won't work."

"Well—" What if it did work? There were too many variables. Aziraphale didn't even— properly know what Crowley meant by temptation. His stomach flipped. Inexplicably, he felt backed into a corner but didn't feel the claustrophobic panic propelling him to run. "I don't even know what would be— involved." His face was heating up, and he could only hope the lowering light would hide the colour he was.

"Let'ssss sssay..." Crowley paused. Too much hissing, too much feeling. He told his body to get over the state of intoxication he'd shoved it into, winced, and realized exactly what he'd gotten himself into. "Uh. Tell you what... You tell me what I'm meant to be tempting you into, that way..." He didn't finish the sentence.

Aziraphale wet his lips. He set his cup on the mantle so the alcohol wouldn’t spill over because of his shaking hands. He adjusted it once or twice with his finger. "Well..." He thought for a moment. Did he even know what Crowley should tempt him into? "I don't know what you would." Crowley was giving him control. But he didn't know what to do with it. His desires terrified him to the point where he didn't even recognize them for what they were.

"Could be anything," Crowley explained.  _ Anything at all, say the word, nothing off limits from my end. _ Stupid. "And the way it works, you'd have the chance to say no. It's not that I force anyone into doing things. Just make it more appealing s'all. So. What do you want, Aziraphale?"

"I want—"  _ The apple, the whole damn Garden. _ He flapped his hands uselessly in the air. "I want..."  _ You. I want to be free. _ "Well. Perhaps a nap." His voice was nothing more than a whisper.

Crowley was intensely aware that he was already on the bed Aziraphale would need access to in order to take said nap. He didn't want to get up. Even sober, he wasn't sure his legs would hold. "Right," he said, also whispering, also hiding from whoever (Whoever) might be listening in, "then you'll need to... to move over to the bed. Because— I mean, it'd be pretty funny of you to take a nap in a chair."  _ Don't mind me. I'm not in your way, am I? _

Aziraphale clenched his fists and bounced them on his hips briefly. "Yes. Certainly." He was being tempted. Where was the problem? It was all deniability, wasn't it? And it was important to find out if he was, in fact, immune to demonic miracles, right? It was reconnaissance. If he could just lie to himself, maybe his heart would stop pounding so painfully in his chest. He forced his legs to move and he sat on the corner of the bed. He stared at his hands for a moment, and then looked up at Crowley, alarmed at the closeness. Alarmed that he could see the soft yellow light of his eyes behind his sunglasses. Alarmed but comforted. It felt like coming home.

Terrifyingly, Crowley found he had no idea of what to do next. He'd never tempted anyone to  _ sleep  _ before. Of all earthly pleasures, sleep was generally something people managed to accomplish on their own. Was he supposed to—  _ to tuck Aziraphale in? _ Sing him a lullaby? The thought was absurd, even as some part of his mind started working out what he would sing if it came to that; anything to distract him from how very, very close Aziraphale was sitting, on a bed, in a place no one would see them, at night, after spending a day and a night together already, and he was obviously thinking about it despite his best efforts. Crowley made the decision to blink. How different could it be, really, to aim the temptation in a different direction? He knew how to lowercase-tempt Aziraphale, from all the times they'd talked about silly inconsequential desires, and he knew how to really properly (improperly?) Tempt humans, and this couldn't be too dissimilar. A little demonic twist to the words was all it generally took. There was, of course, always the chance Aziraphale would resist.

"Might not work," he reminded Aziraphale. "If you don't give in. S'not infallible— I'm good, but I'm not, I don't— I can't override free will. If you don't want it there's nothing I can do to force you into doing any of it. I mean— it's not that I can only get people to do things they already wanted to do, not much of a trick, that, is it? But if they don't want it I just have to convince them they do. That's the tricky bit. That's where the skill comes in. But if you don't— if you change your mind, it's... You can say no."

"It's just a nap," Aziraphale mumbled, turning his head and staring across the room. He didn't understand the need for all this hubbub about it. He just twiddled his fingers together, waiting for the demonic whisper to tickle his ear and trying to keep himself from jumping out the window.

"Nothing wrong with a nap," Crowley murmured. "And you are sleepy, aren't you?"

Aziraphale was about to remind Crowley that he was an angel and therefore didn't get sleepy unless he wanted to, when he realized that was exactly the point. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, he fought a shiver. Replaying the words in his head, he did begin to feel an unfamiliar sort of drowsiness come about him. "Well," he started, but couldn't figure out how to finish.

"I know," said Crowley soothingly. "Why don't you lie down, see if that feels better?"

Now that sounded like a lovely idea. Without even registering that Crowley was still on the bed, Aziraphale laid down, gazing up at him, cherub-like, eyes soft and full of affection he was normally alert enough to hide. Was this what Eve felt? The comforting, seductive whisper bringing her to do something she already wanted?

This was frighteningly easy. The idea that Aziraphale would just... listen to him, accept instructions,  _ trust  _ him zipped through Crowley like a tingle up his spine. And the look in Aziraphale's eyes... Crowley had to look away before he could tell himself anything he would regret believing later. "That's right," he said, still hushed, still calming. Not yet really trying, even. He'd barely applied himself to the supernatural part of this so far— just said the words and Aziraphale had obeyed. Like he was ready.  _ What else is he ready for? _ But Crowley didn't dare address that, even to himself. He hummed; not a tune, just a single note. "It'll be hard to fall asleep with your eyes open, you know."

Aziraphale was about to close his eyes when suddenly a thought occurred to him. "But where will you go?" he asked. Should he be putting up more of a fight? Crowley had already said he could resist, he could say no, so was there a point? His mind was too muddled even to be anxious. It was almost relaxing.

Crowley hesitated. It would be simple enough to wave off such concerns; to tell him not to worry about that, to let him handle it. And chances were good Aziraphale wouldn't argue. It's what he would have done if this were an ordinary temptation. If this were anyone else. But it wasn't, it was Aziraphale, and this was his bed but he'd promised it to Crowley already, which did put a bend in this road. If Aziraphale were to use the bed, where could Crowley sleep? It didn't seem right to brush off the question. No one was grading Crowley's performance here. He didn't have to win this bet.

"You can take the bed," he said, "and I'll sleep on the floor, not a problem. Good for the back." Within the parameters of a temptation, being reassuring, without denying Aziraphale the chance to offer a counter solution or to back out entirely. Probably the best balance he could have struck in this position. (Sitting over a sleepy angel who was willing to make himself vulnerable to a demon.) (In the same bed as Aziraphale.)

Aziraphale sat up, frowning. "It can't be comfortable," he said. Was that any better than turning him away? Than making him sleep outside, in an alley, in a stranger's home?

"What do you recommend, then?" Crowley held his breath. He wasn't Tempting anymore. This was a decision he wanted Aziraphale to make untampered with. He didn't mention that, though. Aziraphale was more likely to say and do things Crowley wanted him to do if he could hide behind the excuse of demonic influence, wasn't he? If he couldn't tell when he was being tempted— and Crowley had no way of knowing if that was something an angel could pick up on— then Crowley certainly wasn't going to yield that advantage. He waited for an answer.

Aziraphale looked down at the bed, as if measuring it, determining whether the obvious and only solution were even possible. He swallowed hard. They were already doing more than anything Aziraphale could excuse to the Archangels. What was one night? It didn't have to mean anything. He was being tempted, he told himself. "Well I suppose— there wouldn't be any harm in sharing." He paused, the gravity of those two syllables catching his breath in his throat. "At least for the length of my nap."

Crowley wasn’t used to getting what he wanted. He exhaled. Carefully (always carefully), he set aside most of the reaction building up inside him and focused only on the words  _ my nap, _ because that meant Aziraphale was still interested in being tempted. Whatever happened after that would be... something else. It could wait. Crowley's hands were shaking; he held onto his knees like he could hold himself together that way, and said, "You must be exhausted." Which didn't come out quite right. He meant it to sound like a rephrasing of his earlier insinuation of tiredness, of an innocent drowsiness. This... This sounded almost like Crowley was talking about something else entirely. An exhaustion which he’d been wrestling with for eons and which Aziraphale never seemed to recognize.

He fumbled to correct, pushing more demonic force into it: "It's been a long day, you'll be wanting to sleep in a comfortable bed like this. Soft pillows, thick blankets... Doesn't that feel good?"  _ Good. _ It was a loaded word between them, but if Aziraphale was as tired as he should be after that, maybe he would avoid overthinking it. Crowley wished he could do the same.

Aziraphale hummed, his eyes fluttering shut. He sat there for a moment, and then laid down and curled up. He opened his eyes and looked up at Crowley through his eyelashes. He took a long, deep breath, suddenly wanting nothing more than to pull Crowley down beside him. He curled up slightly, and his knees touched him. Aziraphale shifted away quickly, too quickly, but otherwise gave no indication of having noticed.

Every point of contact, even for a second, was a spark. Crowley was electrified, a live wire ungrounded, desperately trying not to be burned up by how badly he— wanted this. (Wouldn't, couldn't say needed. He was doing just fine as things were.) Aziraphale seemed to be having trouble keeping his eyes open, which meant the temptation was working, which meant angels weren't in fact immune. Which Crowley could have told him, because if angels were incorruptible then where would demons come from? But here they were. "Yes," he said quietly, only dragging it out a little too long, "yes, that's it."

Aziraphale's breathing got shallower, slower. Unconsciously, he half-reached his hand out, only registering vaguely that Crowley was supposed to be in the bed with him. He could only imagine the look on Crowley's face — probably triumph, or smugness. He was much too tired to open his eyes now to see.

Crowley shifted away from the hand so as to avoid seeing it flinch away from him if it accidentally touched him. With Aziraphale's eyes closed, Crowley could look as much as he wanted. He knew his expression was dangerously soft, but what was the harm, if no one could see it? No one would ever know any of this had happened. Aziraphale was half-asleep and Crowley still had his glasses on. He wet his lips. His throat was so dry. "Yes," Crowley whispered again with a parched mouth, "just like that, good,"  _ you're so good, angel, you're fucking perfect, you're— _ "comfortable?"

Aziraphale hummed, content, too tired now to form words. He nodded, ever so slightly. Mumbled something that might sound like "Good night, my dear," but one couldn't be sure.

Crowley waited until he was sure Aziraphale would remain asleep. Then he flung himself from the bed and began pacing. What now? He'd done his bit, proven angels could be tempted (proven  _ Aziraphale  _ could be tempted), and what did he have for his pains? Aziraphale sleeping in the only bed in the room. Sure, Aziraphale had agreed to share for the night, but that had been under... extenuating circumstances. Half-drunk and half-tempted. If Crowley let himself actually do it... If they woke up next to each other... Aziraphale would be furious. Another to add to the list of times Crowley'd overstepped, misjudged the boundaries they'd set up, wrecked things. Fallen from grace. So he couldn't stay in the bed.

He went to sit in the room's one chair, remembered in time that it would still be warm from Aziraphale's sitting there, and straightened hurriedly. Even that would feel like too much. Crowley considered the floor. It would hardly be ideal, but it was better than the alternative, wasn't it?

Except... If he slept on the floor, personal discomfort aside, might Aziraphale not take that the wrong way? He'd been willing to share, and if Crowley refused that, how could he interpret that? It was safer, really, to acquiesce and take the other side of the bed. Crowley told himself this made sense. Definitely the most sensible decision possible in this scenario. And after all, Aziraphale had only said he wanted a nap. Not a full night's sleep. In which case he would wake first and could act however he liked before Crowley had to get up and face consequences for tonight. He could pretend it never happened. If Crowley woke up and Aziraphale was already awake, there was nothing to say he had ever been asleep.

Yes. Crowley swallowed. Yes, this was the right choice. He pulled off the sunglasses, drew closer to the bed— and oh, Aziraphale was gorgeous like this, soft and relaxed and not angry with him— and pulled back the blanket until he could slither in. He closed his eyes.

Aziraphale was vaguely aware of the weight of another body, the proximity. Distantly, warning bells sounded. He was much too tired, much too content, to worry about it. The part of his mind that was often forced into silence in his waking hours, repressed by angelic conditioning and instinct, was euphoric at being allowed to have Crowley so close. 

He slept for several hours, and when his eyes fluttered open he realized just how close Crowley was lying. Aziraphale swallowed hard. He looked beautiful, even in the darkness. His face, bare, exposed, unhidden but shut. Soft, almost content. 

Aziraphale knew he should get up. He knew that he had already done too much. But if he got up he would probably hurt Crowley's feelings and. Well. He couldn't do that, could he? So he just settled down again, gazing at Crowley in the darkness until he fell asleep again. Perhaps sleeping wasn't an entire waste of time.

When Crowley opened his eyes, the sun was just making its way through the sky. Still early. So Crowley was the first to rise, then, which was probably for the best. No evidence for Aziraphale to ever know for sure that he'd spent the night in bed with a demon. Nothing to show Crowley hadn't slept on the floor, politely distanced. Crowley yawned, stretched and restored his sunglasses to their rightful place. Then he slid out of the bed and made his way over to the table. There wasn't really anything left over from last night's drinking session, and it was disgustingly early in the morning, but Crowley stared at the bottle until it ceded up a dribble of something liquidish enough, and he drank it with a grimace. He straightened his clothes and threw himself into the chair to prepare for Aziraphale's waking. Crowley arranged himself into an artful lounging to stare at the ceiling. It was a very interesting ceiling. Nothing at all to do with the way he wanted to be looking somewhere else, and couldn't.

Aziraphale shifted at all the noise in the room, finally opening his eyes a crack. He extended his hand out and found the rest of the bed empty, still-warm. Crowley must have only gotten up a few minutes ago. He sat up on his hands, rubbing his eyes. Finally conscious, he realized the sin he had committed last night, but was careful not to let his panic show on his face. Even though Crowley wasn't looking directly at him, Aziraphale was sure he could still sense him, somehow. 

"Good morning," he said. "I seem to have slept a bit longer than I originally intended." Make it seem accidental. No one had to know how close Aziraphale would hold that proximity in the coming months.

"Morning," said Crowley, leaving goodness out of the picture. "Experiment a success, I take it.  _ Resounding  _ one, I'd say. That was some nap."

"Well, I wasn't making much of an effort to resist." He looked down at the bed again. Crumpled where Crowley had been lying beneath the sheets. Aziraphale hadn't bothered. He stood up, attempting to tug the wrinkles out of his coat and internally lamenting the fact that he would have to get them steamed. "But I suppose it did prove that I'm not entirely immune."

"How does it... feel?" Crowley didn't think he'd meant to ask, but the words are out. "Temptation, I mean. Never been on the receiving end myself, y'know."

Aziraphale cleared his throat. "Well," he began. "I can't say for sure what it would feel like for something... not sleep-related. But it rather feels as though I've been suddenly overcome with tiredness, and I want nothing more than to crawl into bed. And your voice, it sort of. Slithers its way into my mind. Feels less like you're speaking to me and more like..." His cheeks reddened but with a bit of Effort it receded. "Well, like you're inside me."

Crowley quirked a smile. "Demon on your shoulder?"

"Something like that," he said. He cleared the glasses and the bottle off the table. "Any plans for today? Now that we've answered your little question."

"Hang on," said Crowley,  _ "you _ can do tempting too. Only the other way. We ought to... take a swing at it. To really do the thing properly."

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. "Angels don't tempt," he said. Well. Good angels. "We  _ encourage. _ But. I suppose there's no harm in trying." But what if there was? Sure, perhaps a demon tempting an angel might not have any adverse metaphysical consequences, but what if having an angelic touch so close caused Crowley pain? And of course, Aziraphale remembered— most of his "encouragements" were accompanied by touch. It made them more effective. Which meant if they were to do this, Aziraphale would have to touch Crowley. Physically. With his hands.

Crowley shifted in his seat. "How do we start, then?" And what would he be tempted— sorry,  _ encouraged  _ into? There were very, very few things Aziraphale could ask of him that he wouldn't do already, without getting divine intervention involved.

"Well, just as you allowed me to decide what you were tempting me into, I feel as though I ought to allow you to make the choice of what I'm going to encourage you to do." He sat down on the bed, back straight, hands in his lap.

Well, shit. Crowley knew exactly what he wanted. What he'd been wanting for as long as he could remember. He also knew that most of those things were impossible. Anyway, the point wasn't to get him to do things he was already interested in. "What about," he began, and swallowed. "If you made me hungry." It seemed fair, at least. He'd gotten Aziraphale to sleep; Aziraphale could bring him to eat.

"Alright," Aziraphale said. "Simple enough." He scooted over a bit and patted the bed beside him. "Why don't you come and sit over here, my dear?"

Crowley's stupid fucking heart did its predictable dance at that, but he did it. "Are you making arrangements for breakfast or shall I?"

"You're quite confident," he said, unable to suppress a smile despite the wild, longing terror deep in his belly. "You make the arrangements, if you like."

Crowley snapped and the table sprouted a tray piled high with slices of melon and bread, with sucuk and börek, and two steaming cups of palude next to the honey and jam. "Is this enough?"

Aziraphale's eyebrows shot up. That wasn't what he thought Crowley meant. But that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. "Right. Well." He waved his hand and another chair appeared opposite the other. Could he have done that two nights ago? Yes, but that wasn't relevant now.

He turned to Crowley, looking up at him for a moment before realizing his mistake. He wasn't nearly as silver-tongued as Crowley was, so this was likely to be much less seductive than Crowley's temptation had managed to be. "Well, my dear boy. While I know food isn't really something you enjoy, I would much like it if you shared this meal with me. It would be dreadful to put all this food to waste, and I would be on the edge of gluttony if I were to eat it all myself." Almost unconsciously, willed by practice, he reached up and touched Crowley's shoulder, squeezing. "And I think, after such a long few days, your stomach is probably rather empty, yes? It's probably grumbling and feeling entirely unhappy with how little you've been eating." He dropped his hand, fighting his own instincts to keep it there.

Crowley battled the urge to grab at the retreating hand. It didn't matter; he could still feel its pressure, could draw a precise line around the area Aziraphale had made contact with. He wanted so badly it took him a moment to remember that Aziraphale had said anything at all. Was he hungry? He definitely hadn't eaten in a while. And there was something more at work here, some little push at the back of his mind, telling him in a familiar voice how nice it would be to have some of the food from the tray. It was just sitting there, after all. Right next to him. The food, that is. Of course the food.

"Aren't you hungry? Wouldn't you like to dine with me?"  _ Communion. _ "I wouldn't want to force you to sit there and watch me eat." That was what he normally did, and Aziraphale wondered what pleasure he could possibly derive from it. "I don't want to eat all on my own."

It  _ was  _ especially nice food, and it  _ had  _ been a long time since his last meal, but the main reason Crowley found himself agreeing was Aziraphale, and he didn't know how much was angelic might and how much was just his own bone-deep need to give in to this angel in particular. Whatever the driving force, Crowley pulled out the newly-materialized second chair and took a seat. "Then don't."

Aziraphale watched him go and then he joined him across the table. He looked up at him, over this food Crowley had conjured for them. "Well. I suppose that answers that," he said. Again, he doubted that much resistance was happening, but of course he couldn't know just  _ how  _ little.

"Haven't eaten anything yet, don't get ahead of yourself," said Crowley, who wasn't ready to give this up so quickly.

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. "Well that would be rude, to make me go through all this effort just for you not to eat," he said, cocking his head.

"Then I suppose you'll have to work harder, won't you?" Crowley put his elbows up on the table to lean his chin in his hands. The table's spread had definitely included at least two forks somewhere in there, but he wasn't going to look for one. Make Aziraphale  _ try: _ Crowley didn't have much dignity but he clung to what little he had  _ very  _ fiercely.

Aziraphale frowned. He reached out and took one of Crowley's hands, bringing it away from his chin. "I know you don't want to be rude to me, Crowley," he said, raising his eyebrow and making much more of an Effort. "Aren't you hungry." It was not a question. It was partially a threat.

Oh. Oh, fucking hell, so this was what Aziraphale looked like when he was trying. Crowley felt the encouraged hunger grow within him until he was nothing but empty space, entirely hollow, just skin stretched over the void between stars and a need older than time. He didn't think fruit could fix this. "Yes," he said, and Aziraphale was still holding one of his hands, and why was he doing that, didn't he know it was driving Crowley insane? Crowley didn't move his hand away. He sucked in air like it was oxygen he was starving for, but it didn't help, so he gasped out, "Yeah, angel, I'm hungry," and only barely managed to cut off before he could say anything embarrassing like  _ Please. _

Aziraphale sucked in a breath. He pried his fingers away. "Good," he said, running his hands along his trouser legs to wipe the memory of Crowley's skin away. "Well." He swallowed. What was he to say after that? Crowley's voice had just — Lord Almighty. He picked up his fork.

Crowley struggled to hold himself still. "That'sss it?" he said, horribly, obviously disappointed. "Haven't even got a fork."

Aziraphale's head jerked up. "Oh. Um." He swallowed, blinking. "It doesn't— have to be." He clamped his mouth shut. He hadn't meant to voice his desires. He placed the fork back on the edge of his plate and looked up at Crowley, carefully. The disappointment in Crowley's voice was enough to make Aziraphale want to do anything for him. "What... did you have in mind?"

"You're meant to be tempting me to eat," Crowley pointed out. "Or— encouraging, or whatever. And I haven't. Yet. So how can you be finished?"

"You. Want to eat, don't you?" he asked, unsure exactly what Crowley was trying to imply. How could this possibly get more blasphemous?

"Well, maybe," said Crowley, and would have winked if not for several factors including such things as sunglasses and cowardice. "But I don't want to make things  _ too  _ easy for you. You fell right asleep last night, easy as anything. Let's see if we can't give you a bit more of a challenge, hm?"

Aziraphale cocked his head. "A challenge?" he repeated. This was challenging enough as it is; Aziraphale felt the heresy seeping into his bones. Who knew what the Archangels would see on him the next time he was in Heaven. He felt dirtied, but it was thrilling and he couldn't bring himself to pull away.

Crowley shrugged. "Bit of resistance. Yeah." As if he could ever resist Aziraphale. But the tugging at his willpower, that was something specific, that could be focused on and maybe pushed back against. He meant to give in, of course. Eventually. Once he'd brought Aziraphale as far as he was willing to go without pulling back into himself again. Crowley leaned forward.  _ "Tempt  _ me, angel."

Aziraphale leaned forward towards Crowley. Because he was being a bastard. And. Well, he couldn't be expected to  _ let  _ a  _ demon  _ win. Could he? He picked up a piece of melon and, holding Crowley's eyes— or, he assumed he was, since he could hardly see them— brought it up to Crowley's perfect, tempting lips.

Well, there was nothing Crowley could do in the face of  _ that. _ He'd concede Aziraphale was better at this tempting business in a heartbeat, better at his job, because look at him tormenting a demon like this. How had Crowley planned to say no to anything? How had he gotten himself into this? He opened his mouth to accept the offering and closed his eyes as it hit his tongue. Still dust, but the texture was... Crowley didn't like using words like "delightful," but it was how Aziraphale would describe this bite of melon, cool in the heat of his mouth. Without thinking, Crowley licked the juice off the outstretched fingers, and then realized what he'd done. His eyes flew open.

Watching Crowley look... almost reverent as he took the piece of fruit out of his hand made something stir deep inside of Aziraphale. He wanted him to look like that forever. 

As Crowley's tongue slithered out, its warmth cleaning the juice from his fingers, Aziraphale froze as well like a mouse caught in the gaze of a snake, his own eyes wide. His face turned a very dark colour. It was all he could do not to reach just a few centimeters more and trace Crowley's lips with the tip of his finger, thumb them apart. His breathing— which he did out of habit and politeness— became very shallow. He swallowed hard, trying to banish the want that roared in his stomach, to pat it down into a place where it would be bearable. 

Finally, mechanically, he brought his hand down and wiped it with a napkin, eyes down as though ashamed. And he was ashamed: he was ashamed because he knew exactly how Crowley felt, had always known though he pretended ignorance, and he had weaponized it. And he was ashamed because he couldn't be what Crowley wanted. And he was ashamed because he felt all those blasphemous, hedonistic things, but they were things unacceptable for an angel to feel, forbidden to even name, and he was ashamed for feeling them anyway.

"Aziraphale," Crowley breathed, not knowing what he would follow that with, and wasn't the name enough, wasn't sanctity on a demon's exhale evidence enough? He'd been giving himself away all along. "Aziraphale," again, and somehow between one breath and the next the word slipped out:  _ "Please." _

A garbled nonverbal sound worked its way out of Aziraphale's throat as so many horrible emotions threatened to spill from him. His name from Crowley's tongue made it sound almost unholy, and Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to do the same but in the opposite direction: make Crowley angelic again by the force of his voice. If Aziraphale could say his name often enough, would he become close enough to goodness that it wouldn't be Wrong? "Crowley," he said, only once, because the despair in his voice made him realize the impossibility. He knew what Crowley wanted. And it was so hard not to give in— just once, what was the harm? They had already done so much, what was just once? It was Fall worthy, that was what. He may not have done something enough to warrant Her wrath yet, but he knew the consequences would be dire and he would never be able to take them back. So even just once was too much. But he would be lying if he said he felt too sure in that. He would be lying if he said he didn't want to give Crowley anything he wanted, do anything for him. After all, he knew that was how the demon felt for him.

"Just—"  _ Just once, just a taste. Just so I know what I'm missing. I just want to know. _ He wanted more than that. He would always want more.  _ Just one time and I swear—  _ "We don't..." Crowley clamped his jaw shut around the half-sentence: a mouthful of air, the words not yet released. He was still hollowed-out from the miracle of Aziraphale's temptation. He wanted and it was Aziraphale's fault. He wanted and it was Aziraphale.  _ I can't hold this in me, I'm sorry, I tried. But if you give me this (just once, just the once) I can hold onto this and they'll never know. We'll never bring it up. I'll never make you remember even when it keeps me up nights. It can be only mine, buried under my skin, and you can go on like it never happened, please, I need it so much it scares me. _ "We won't talk about it."

Acknowledging it, even if it wasn't by name, seemed far too much. "It's not the talking about it," Aziraphale said after a long moment of swimming through his craving to find his voice. "It's— it's the _ doing." _ Even speaking to him like this, about it, everything they had done since last night, had all been too far. It had been foolish to let it get as far as it had. No matter what Aziraphale wanted, his survival and his duty were more important.

"Because of  _ them?" _ Crowley demanded, because if it was only about them then it wasn't about him. If Aziraphale was holding back because of Heaven at least he would be holding back; at least it meant he  _ wanted  _ the same as Crowley. It was hard to imagine Aziraphale could be suffering from the same aching expanse behind his ribs, but if he said yes, if he admitted it wasn't of his own accord that he was refusing…

"Yes, Crowley! Because it's— it wouldn't be natural." Aziraphale looked away, blinking back tears. "I'm an angel, and you're a demon, we're not— meant—"  _ To love one another. To need one another. _ He took a shuddering, frightened breath.

Crowley sighed. "Then don't," he said, for the second time today.

Aziraphale scrunched the hem of his shirt into his fists. Then, he said, possibly for the first time in their relationship, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," said Crowley, though his arms were crossed, and the memory of melon in his mouth was only a sour stickiness.

Those words should have relieved Aziraphale— Crowley was giving him an out, as always. He was letting him go. But he just couldn't. He didn't want to have to go another two hundred years without speaking to Crowley. He wanted to be able to take all of it back. Aziraphale could live with the quiet aching longing. He didn't know if he could live with it roaring loud in his chest, clawing out of his throat and begging to be let free. He looked back at Crowley, the way he folded into himself, like he had been hollowed out and shattered. "I'm not like you," Aziraphale said quietly. "I can't just... do anything I want. They'll see and I can't— I don't..."

"They won't," said Crowley, because hadn't they proven that already, wasn't that the very basis of their Arrangement, "but if you won't— if you can't..." He had steeled himself to it already. There was nothing to forgive. He hadn't really expected anything different. If Aziraphale couldn't give him any more than this, Crowley was... He could... He'd rather have this than nothing, was the point. "Then I won't."  _ Won't say anything again. Won't make this mistake anymore. Won't reach for what's beyond me. Sorry I brought it up, angel, I'll be sure to keep to my side of the line from now on. _

"You can't be sure," Aziraphale whispered. "You can't be sure  _ She  _ won't see." Maybe it would be safer, easier, more comfortable, to just let Crowley do everything, let him recede so they could go back to their Arrangement and their easy lives. But knowing what was behind every gaze, every smile, every "angel," would tear him apart. "I just..." How could he compromise? How could he make them both happy? He didn't think he could, but he could do his best. "I can't. Not right now. Maybe in— a hundred years, a thousand, maybe there will be a time when we can... talk about...  _ it. _ When we'll be safe."

Crowley nodded, but the bottom of his stomach had dropped out.  _ A hundred years. A thousand. _ He couldn't stay here. He couldn't do this, not right now; he couldn't sit across from Aziraphale and watch him eat a breakfast Crowley had summoned for him, see a fork in the same fingers that had pressed melon to his lips. Fingers he knew the taste of. (There was nothing of dust about Aziraphale. The curse evidently did not apply to things that should not be tasted. Sticks and stones and angels.) "Right," he said, and pushed back his chair to rise. "Well. I'll be in France if you—"  _ Need me. _ "I'll be in France."

Aziraphale stood up after him, almost,  _ almost  _ catching his hand. He pulled away at the last moment. "Please, I don't want to leave it like this."  _ I don't want to leave you so hurt. _ "Not like last time."

"This won't be like last time," Crowley said, and it sounded like a promise though he wasn't sure to whom. "I'll see you after France, angel."

Aziraphale pressed his fingers together, hoping the pressure might anchor him. "Alright," he said. "After France." He still didn't want to leave on such a heartbroken note, but he couldn't deny Crowley his exit.

Crowley passed by the hostel manager on his way out, who seemed delighted to see him, and said, "Ah! Still staying with your friend?"

"No," said Crowley shortly, and went to find a way of getting to France that didn't involve horses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes on the history referred to in this chapter:  
> [Pargalı Ibrahim Pasha](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pargal%C4%B1_Ibrahim_Pasha) was executed during a dinner party in the Topkapı Palace on 15 March 1536.  
> Aziraphale reads from Edmund Spenser's "The Faerie Queene" and the title of this chapter comes from that.  
> The "Chinese philosophy" Aziraphale brings up is the concept of yin/yang.  
> Crowley refers to the [Danish Grevens Fejde](https://www.britannica.com/event/Counts-War#ref239961) and Aziraphale brings up [Henry II of France,](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_II_of_France) who became heir in 1536 and ascended the throne in 1547.  
> Min fadlik is Arabic. Lütfen is Turkish and Persian. Both mean "please."  
> The taste of dust is because of the Serpent's punishment in Genesis 3:14.


	4. Nothing Tainted or Ruined

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those among us who don't have their meeting times memorized: this chapter takes place after the Globe Theatre, 1601.  
> CW for food/drink.

#  **1692: Salem**

Aziraphale was skirting nervously around the edges of the noisy crowd, trying to make eye contact with the young woman who was being carried toward the long plank at the edge of the lake.

Crowley had her eyes closed; they'd gotten her into enough trouble already, and she didn't really fancy seeing all the wonderful people baying for blood. Or, well, not blood precisely. Drowning wasn't a messy way to go at least. Painful though, or so she had heard from the boy who'd fallen into the river as a child. He'd told her that back when people still spoke to her. Before all this ugliness they were calling trials, and before she'd been caught with the glasses off. Wasn't bad enough she'd been insisting the condemned were innocent, oh no, she had to go and prove herself aligned with Satan too. Which she  _ was, _ but was that any reason to dunk her in a lake?

Finally getting a decent view of her as she was stood up, Aziraphale very nearly swore aloud. Because who else could it be? 

Well, surely he couldn't just let Crowley be discorporated. But then, how could he conjure a miracle that would save her without it looking very obviously like he was aiding the Enemy? He wasn't even supposed to be interfering in these "trials" to begin with. He cast his eyes around, as if the solution would materialize over the heads of the crowd. 

Aziraphale huffed and waved his hand. The clouds darkened. Just as the priest was talking about Satan, something or other— Aziraphale almost smiled at the irony— a bolt of lightning struck a nearby tree. 

While this might not exactly aid Crowley's case, it couldn't hurt.

The crowd started murmuring, and a few started shouting more at Crowley. Aziraphale slipped through the crowd towards the preacher, trying to get his attention.

From behind closed eyelids, Crowley saw the flash of brightness. Even if she hadn't, it would have been hard to miss the increase of volume that followed. She opened her eyes to see what had happened. The tree was still smoking, possibly smouldering, for no apparent reason. Well, brilliant, something else to blame her for. There was certainly enough shouting to be getting on with before this. If they could just get  _ on  _ with it. Crowley didn't mind the thought of discorporation so much as the few moments after submersion. And after  _ that  _ there would be a tedious amount of paperwork to fill out, which she was never tremendously eager about. Not to mention the nagging thought in the back of her mind that most people in her place would be a lot more frightened— but that wasn't really very evil, so she pushed the thought aside once more. The crowd was only growing angrier.

Aziraphale, with a decent amount of holy Effort, tried to convince the priest that the lightning was a sign from the Almighty that the young woman he was preparing to dunk was in fact  _ not  _ a witch and that he was making a mistake. It even went so far as subtly suggesting that he himself was a messenger from God, and that the lightning strike would be much closer to where the priest was standing if he didn't bring her back from the edge of that plank. 

The priest didn't really seem to believe Aziraphale until he snapped his fingers and the clouds mysteriously dispersed, sunlight streaming down over the severely panicked crowd. The preacher shouted to the other men to bring the witch back off the plank, and Aziraphale pushed through the crowd to get to Crowley.

"Azir— What are you  _ doing  _ here?" Crowley hissed. "I suppose this business is your department's doing."

"Don't look at me," he said, leading her through the crowd and giving anyone who seemed like they might shout at them or do something similarly annoying a withering look. "I'm trying to  _ help  _ you." As they got to a relatively sparse clearing, he started untying the ropes around her wrists. "Head Office approves, of course, but that doesn't mean I like watching young women drown or get burnt at the stake. I'm sticking my neck out for you."

"I had it under control," said Crowley distractedly. Aziraphale's fingertips were brushing against her skin rather more than was conducive for delivering a proper telling-off. And it was tricky to yell at someone for saving you from a lot of discomfort and inconvenience.

"You most certainly did not," he replied, too distracted to notice the touch of their skin, the inside of Crowley's wrists against his fingers. "You really must be more careful, dear. How did you even get caught? Turn your neighbor into a toad?" He knelt down and untied the ropes from around her ankles. Only now, of course, did he realize the proximity. He cleared his throat and stood.

"I did," Crowley said, and then scowled. "I mean. No, not the toad thing. I had a plan, I was going to... 'f you must know I was going to, uh, transform once they couldn't see me. Underwater. Anyhow, no, didn't do anything. Said some things about these stupid bloody trials and then someone saw my eyes an' that was the end of that."

"Oh well, of course," Aziraphale said. He couldn't blame them honestly. Humans were so close-minded. He wasn't going to acknowledge the fact that he had expended several miracles, apparently unnecessarily.

Crowley sputtered. "Because having funny eyes means someone's a follower of Hell, angel?"

"In  _ their  _ good opinions, yes," he said, crossing his arms and raising his eyebrows. "In this case, they were right. Come on. They might come to the conclusion that  _ I'm  _ a demon trying to help you, if we don't leave."

“They’d never,” said Crowley, though she followed Aziraphale nonetheless. “Upstanding man like you? Never tried to stop a frog being stepped on, never told anyone Copernicus was onto something? No.”

"Well, I wouldn't get my hopes up," he said. "They're a suspicious lot. I'm staying at this lovely cottage not far away. Head Office, er, made sure it was empty before sending me over here. What are  _ you  _ doing in America?"

"They've set up a nice big university over here, a few years back. Thought I'd take a look at the sorts of things they're teaching kids these days." She paused. "Got a decent astronomy syllabus, actually."

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows, momentarily confused, but then he remembered that astronomy was one of the few things Crowley considered a hobby. He eyed her dress. "I assume you weren't dressed like  _ this  _ while you were there."

She shrugged. "Not in front of anyone important."

He smiled, opening the door to his cottage and gesturing for her to enter first. "It suits you, though. This outfit." He wasn't sure if there was anything that wouldn't suit her, but he didn't really want to think about that at the moment.

Crowley made a pleased noise. "Yours hasn't changed much, has it."

He looked down at himself. "Well no, I quite like this outfit," he said, tugging at the hem of his coat self-consciously. "And, well, I learned from some chaps that  _ lavender  _ is actually a wonderful repellent for moths."

"Cedar, too," said Crowley absently. "Easier to find here than back near our usual haunts, though. Great plant life here."

Aziraphale nodded thoughtfully. "Cup of tea?" he asked, crossing to the cupboard. "I have some Dutch melting chocolate. Something the Spanish learned from those chaps in South America. If that sounds good to you."

"Not really hungry," she said, "but don't let me stop you." Not drowning really took it out of a demon.

"It's not for eating, my dear, it's for drinking." Aziraphale took out a pair of teacups and put the kettle over the fire. "No on the tea?" he asked, standing back up and straightening his vest.

Drinking— That was a different story altogether. The Almighty hadn't said anything about beverages, a fact which Crowley was exceptionally aware of when it came to alcohol. "Alright then." Tea wasn't booze, but chocolate sounded promising.

"It's one of my new guilty pleasures," he said. Of course, Aziraphale had  _ many  _ guilty pleasures. He took out a few chunks of chocolate from a paper-wrapped bar and set them in the bottom of the pair of glasses. When the water was hot, he poured some over the chocolate and then ground some cinnamon over the top. He stirred them and crossed the room to the table. He set a cup in front of Crowley and then sat across from her.

If Crowley were anyone else, she would have said it smelled heavenly. Since she wasn't anyone else, she simply sniffed at her mug and said over the rim of it, "Never believed in them myself. Guilty pleasures. What's wrong with pleasure?"

"Well, nothing, for  _ you. _ Quite a bit for me. I would imagine pleasure is  _ encouraged  _ among your lot. Of course I suppose most things aren't necessarily forbidden, or even taboo, with Head Office. They just... well, they don't understand why I do it. But if it doesn't get in the way of my work, then, well, what can they really say?" Still, he didn't like talking about it to them. He always felt like he needed to justify himself to the Archangels, that there had to be a reason; an angel doing things because he  _ wanted  _ to wasn't very angelic. Free will was something humans got. Humans, and demons.

This argument, of course, ignored the idea that demons had to get the stuff from somewhere.

"Still reading, then? I can already see you're still keeping your pantry stocked."

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am," said Aziraphale. "I finally got around to reading  _ The Man in the Moone. _ I think you'd like it."

"Man in the..." Crowley narrowed her eyes. "There isn't any such person."

"No, no, it's fiction," he said, waving his hand at her. "It's wonderful so far. I think this sort of speculative writing will be immensely popular. Humans just love dreaming about the stars."

Crowley battled with an uncomfortable, unfamiliar warmth. "Got it on hand?" she said, so casually it was almost believable.

"Well, of course I do," he said, as if that was an odd question. It  _ was, _ but that was beside the point. It had been so long since Constantinople that surely Crowley didn't remember... all of that. The fact that Aziraphale remembered was both impressive and horrifying.

She raised an eyebrow. "Favourite part?"

Aziraphale sputtered. "Oh, uh, well... let me think." He licked his lips for a moment, missing a spot of chocolate at the corner of his mouth. "Probably when Gonsoles actually meets the moon people. Lunarians, I think he calls them. It's a wonderful piece of satire. I find it quite entertaining."

"Mm." Crowley was  _ not  _ disappointed. Not at all. Nor was she staring at an angel's lips. "I'll have to look it up some time, I guess."

He smiled, glancing to the bookshelf at the other end of the room fondly. "It is wonderful. Once I'm finished I could always loan you the copy I have."

"Ah—" Crowley winced. "Not likely I'll be sticking around here much longer, after today."

Aziraphale nodded. "Fair enough," he said. "I probably won't be here much longer either." He finished his cup of chocolate and wiped his face with a napkin. "Do you know where you're going... next?"

"Plenty of space around here. Massachusetts alone's got lots of people to tempt. Think I'll head out to a big city and see what mischief I can stir up." She grinned. "And you?"

"Well," he said, "knowing Head Office, they'll have me here to thwart you. At least until they can get an agent down here to watch the Americas. Something's going to happen soon here, I think."

"Sooner if I can manage it," said Crowley, and finished her chocolaty tea. She slid the empty cup towards Aziraphale and hesitated, fingers curled around its handle for something to hold onto. She ought to say something about what had happened earlier. Something polite, probably. But what came out was, "I didn't need your help before, you know. Would've been fine." Which was a poor way of saying thanks.

"Well you seemed in quite a lot of distress earlier," he said with a bit of a snide eyebrow raise. He took the cups to the counter and set them there. "But, I'll take that as a 'thank you."

Crowley waited long enough for it to be clear that such an interpretation  _ had _ been the desired outcome, and then scoffed. "I didn't say anything of the sort, angel, you're twisting my words scandalously."

"Oh dear, how... insubordinate of me," Aziraphale said sarcastically after searching for the word for a moment. He turned and leaned against the counter, crossing his arms and watching her.

She ducked her head, acutely aware that she had no sunglasses to hide behind this time. There was no telling what Aziraphale might see in her eyes if she wasn't careful. "You should stop by Harvard some time," said Crowley, not knowing why she said it— or rather, furious at herself for being unable to keep herself from saying it. "The lads there would appreciate your poetry an' fiction stuff."

Seeing Crowley look... almost demure made those feelings Aziraphale tried so hard to keep under wraps roar to life for the briefest of moments. "Hm," he said. "I might. Perhaps I could learn a thing or two about astronomy while I'm at it."

"Mmm. Replace some of that man in the moon tosh with actual facts, yeah?"

He rolled his eyes. "It's not _ tosh," _ he replied. "It's  _ literature. _ I think you could do with learning a little bit of it yourself, my dear."

"I know plenty of literature!" she protested, and cut off before she could confess to having learned off most of  _ Faerie Queene _ (and a good deal of anything else Aziraphale had ever mentioned having enjoyed).

"I don't think the complete works of Shakespeare's comedies count as literature," Aziraphale said, smiling. He cut some cheese and stiff pieces of bread and put them on a plate for him to snack on and came to sit at the table again.

Crowley scowled. "You just wait," she said, and stole a piece of cheese just to keep in practice. She'd grant those comedies longevity herself if she had to, rather than lose an argument.

He chuckled, but swatted at her hand as she stole the cheese. "I think you need to broaden your palate, my dear," he said. "Read some  _ real  _ classics."

"When man walks on the moon and not a minute sooner."

He scoffed at her. "Lord knows when that will be," he said.

"Exactly. 'S my point."

"Then I suppose you're doomed to an existence bereft of any sort of culture save what you absorb through exposure to me."

At least he hadn't said damned. "Just the way I like it."

Hm. The interpretations there were numerous. Aziraphale didn't comment on it. "Although I suppose they require you to take  _ some  _ useful courses at that university."

"Fascinating definition of  _ useful  _ you're working with there, angel."

"Well, what's the point of  _ you  _ studying astronomy? You could just go out there and see them yourself."

Crowley shook her head. "It's not about what  _ I _ know, I like seeing what  _ they  _ know. Keeping tabs, y'know. Hard for them to actually teach me anything about the stars I don't already know. Doesn't matter."

He raised his eyebrows. What would she want to keep tabs for? "I suppose so. But, still, it would be a good opportunity for you to learn something, if you took classes in things you don't already know."

"Oh, I  _ take  _ the classes. Mainly good for tempting classmates out of them."

Aziraphale smiled. He nearly laughed, but thought better of it. "Yes, of course. It could never be  _ just  _ the education."

"I'm much too old to be going to school," Crowley said, smiling back. Aziraphale's look was... almost fond, unless she was kidding herself.

"Oh I wouldn't be too sure about that," he said. "The humans are always inventing new things to learn about."

And that was too much for Crowley: Aziraphale smiling, Aziraphale admiring humanity, Aziraphale just...  _ exuding  _ love. Not for her, though; Crowley had a great imagination but not even she could tell herself  _ that. _ Crowley's smile wavered and she looked down at her hands in her lap. "Yeah."

He watched her falter— no, more like wither, like a rose thrown into a fire. "Erm. So. What else have you been doing, since London? Besides tempting schoolboys to skip class."

Crowley set her head down on the table, forehead against the cool wood, so she wouldn't have to see his expression anymore. "Nothing exciting. Stuck with old Will for a while and he just kept getting gloomy over politics, so I ditched him for a Captain Reynolds and his  _ Speedwell. _ Less said about that the better, frankly. Anyway, got myself over here in time for school, 'til these idiots started hanging people. It's a lovely New World they're making."

"Well, every era has its darkness," he reminded her. "I mean, the fourteenth century was..." He puffed his cheeks out before blowing his breath out to his teeth. "It was certainly dark. But I'm sure these people will come out better in the end. The ones who survive, that is."

"A great comfort to those who don't, I'm sure." Crowley really, really didn't want to think about the fourteenth century. Between their fight and the plague... Times best forgotten. "So you're here to remind people to keep the faith?"

"Mm. Something like that. Things are certainly heating up in the colonies, so Head Office wants  _ someone  _ out here watching over it all, until they can find someone willing to become a field agent more consistently over here."

Crowley raised an eyebrow, despite still being face-down and therefore mostly unseen. "Suppose I ought to mention that to Downstairs in my next report, then. Can't have Yours over here without one of Ours, after all. And most of the others are rubbish at blending in, so it could be ages before I'm reassigned."

"Oh, dear, well that would be. Certainly inconvenient, given today's predicament." How long would it be before they saw one another next then?

Crowley lifted her head a bit. "Nnh. No, 's a big place, this. Nothing specific in the instructions about Salem, I'd imagine. I'll just strike out for the city, see what's happening over there, stir things up, add a bit of excitement. Told you already."

"Well. I don't think witch burnings are only happening in the isolated rural villages of the colonies. But I'm sure you can take care of yourself."

"More'n capable," Crowley agreed. As soon as she got another pair of sunglasses. She'd have to start holding on to extras. Just in case.

A question occurred to Aziraphale. "Tell me if this is too personal," he began. "But... can't you— make your eyes look normal? Human, that is. With a bit of Effort?"

Crowley leaned back in her chair. She stared at the ceiling. "I can," she said tightly, and did not elaborate further. What was it to Aziraphale if she didn't like doing it? It wasn't the idea of altering her physical appearance that bothered her. It was the ever-presence of it, the constant reminder that she was putting in work just to fit in (because different meant wrong, different meant marked, different meant cursed and defiled and thrown away). Easier by far to hide than to change. Let him think her lazy; at least sloth was within acceptable parameters. "Not worth it."

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows, becoming acutely aware of the fact that she was avoiding looking at him. "Not worth it until it gets you thrown in a lake or burnt at the stake?" he asked. He wasn't trying to needle her. But now that he was aware she was dodging around him, it made him want to get to the bottom of it, to understand why. To understand  _ her. _

"I don't expect  _ you  _ to underssstand," Crowley snapped. Perfect, beautiful angel. No one looked twice at  _ him, _ not the way they did Crowley if the sunglasses were slipping or she held her S's too long. Nothing wrong with  _ him. _ Nothing tainted or ruined, Crowley's influence notwithstanding. An ugly heat was building inside Crowley, making her words bitter on her tongue. "What do you care?"

He frowned, unsure where the harsh words were coming from. "I care a great deal, Crowley," said Aziraphale. "I care what happens to you. I took a risk to help you this afternoon, that ought to say enough."

The heat gentled. She flushed. It was terribly airless in here, wasn't it? Crowley hugged herself and thought  _ Sorry, _ thought  _ I care I care I care, _ thought  _ Maybe in a hundred years. _ She knew better than to say any of that aloud. She said, "I should go."

He cleared his throat, watched the blood bloom on her face. Aziraphale would give anything to be able to bottle that sight, be able to watch it over and over, but only in private. He placed his hands on the table. "If you think that's best. I suppose... I will see you at Harvard, if I ever get the chance to visit."

"Right." Crowley stood. "I'll see you around, angel." The Americas were a big place, but surely she could manage to run into one person multiple times over the years without drawing unwanted attention.

Aziraphale stood as well, crossing the cottage so he could open the door for her. "Until next time, my dear."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley tried to get to America on [the Speedwell](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Speedwell_\(1577_ship\)), the Mayflower's sister ship. It didn't go very well.  
> Aziraphale has been reading Francis Godwin's [_The Man in the Moone_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Man_in_the_Moone).


	5. A Place That's Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since we last saw them, canon interjects once more, with the 1793 Bastille rescue scene.  
> This chapter's premise relies on a deleted scene from the script (available in the first special edition of the scriptbook), in which Aziraphale opens his bookshop (A. Z. Fell & Co., est. 1800) and Gabriel and Sandalphon show up to tell him he's being called back to Heaven. Crowley overhears this conversation and stages a "dialogue" with a dressmaker dummy to convince Gabriel that Aziraphale is essential to vanquishing Crowley's Hellish efforts. If you _haven't_ read it, might we recommend [this animatic](https://tio-trile.tumblr.com/post/188825891934/so-istoryboarded-the-deleted-bookshop-scene-from) to catch you up to speed?  
> CW for this chapter: food/drink.

#  **1800: Soho**

The bookshop doors were closed now. Crowley stood before them, holding chocolates and his heart in his hands.  _ Just go in. _ It was a public building, after all. A business. The sign said Open. Anyone was free to enter, really, so why couldn’t he push the door open?

_ I loathe him,  _ Aziraphale had said, but he’d also said  _ wily and cunning and brilliant. _

Crowley compromised, and knocked.

Aziraphale looked up as there was a knock at the doors. He frowned. People didn't generally knock on the doors to businesses, but he supposed some people were just odd. 

He set down the book he was holding and went to the door, opening it and preparing to deter the customer at whatever means necessary. "Oh!" he said, suspicious annoyance replaced with happiness to see him. "Crowley, hello."

Crowley thrust the box at him and glanced over the angel's shoulder. "For you. They've gone, then?"

Aziraphale nearly jumped at the incoming object, taking a long moment to process what it was. He took it slowly, registering that Crowley had actually literally bought him a box of chocolates. After a long time he said, voice a feather in the breeze, "Yes, yes. They're gone. Just us now." He turned and went through the shop. It was clean and organized and rather empty. "Erm. Tea?"

"Why not," said Crowley, taking that as an invitation in, and trusting that a piece of real estate owned by an angel and recently hosting two others wouldn't qualify as holy ground. He stepped in. "Any news from those two?"

"Oh, uh, no, not as yet. I assume they'll be letting me alone, now that they've decided that I'm of much more use to them down here than, uh—" Aziraphale pointed towards the ceiling— "up there." He set the kettle on the stove and got out a pair of teacups for them. He turned to Crowley, practically glowing. "So what do you think?" he asked.

For a moment, Crowley thought he was being asked for his opinion on Aziraphale's remaining on Earth. The answer, of course, was that he was almost nauseatingly happy about that, as well as smug about his part in it. But while he chewed over the words to say that in less glowing terms, it occurred to him that Aziraphale was probably referring to his new venture. "Oh, the shop? Yeah, congrats, well done and all. Bit... empty. Would've expected more clutter."

"Well, I've only just started," he said. "I'm sure the collection will expand quickly. Do let me know if you come across any rare or interesting books in your travels."

Aziraphale turned as the kettle started whistling and poured them both their cups of tea. He sat down on the couch and looked around the back room.

Crowley wrapped his fingers around the steaming cup. "But it's a shop," he said, frowning. "You'll have to sell off anything I bring."

"Not if I have anything to say about it," he replied bitterly as he took a sip from his cup. "The humans can't really be trusted with many of the tomes I have kept here."

With difficulty, Crowley maintained a straight face. "I suppose it's irrelevant that they made the things in the first place."

"Yes, it is," he said, with heat. "They don't... well, respect them, like they should. They burn books and let them get water damage and woodworm and—" Aziraphale shuddered. "Much better they stay here where I can look after them."

Guardianship was in Aziraphale's nature, intrinsic to him; he was protective to his core. Crowley imagined, sometimes, being on the receiving end of that attention. (He had been, once.  _ I care what happens to you. _ When saving Crowley all those years ago, had Aziraphale been acting on his protective instincts or against them?) In the face of that unlikeliness, Crowley did what he could not to make his wanting obvious. He could be the saviour, when the occasion arose; he could bring chocolates and books for the shop and anything Aziraphale could ask from him. Aziraphale was a caretaker. Crowley was a tempter. So why was it Crowley who cared and Aziraphale who was so confoundingly tempting?

Crowley swallowed. "Yeah, good logic."

"And what about you, dear boy? How have you been since... Paris, wasn't it? Anything... interesting? Any fascinating temptations?"

He considered. "John Hetherington," he said. "New hat. Don't care what they all said, 'm convinced it'll come into style. Keep an eye out for that one."

Aziraphale's eyes rolled around as he searched his memory. "Wasn't he that bloke who was arrested a few years ago for public disturbance?" He had never found out  _ why _ Hetherington was being a public disturbance; he just remembered reading it in the paper.

Crowley grinned. "So you heard about it." Infamy was loads better than obscurity.

"Briefly," said Aziraphale, bristling at Crowley's smugness— but only because it was expected of him. "What did you tempt him into?"

"Said." Crowley lifted the teacup to his lips. "Hat," he said, and drank.

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. "The  _ hat  _ is what caused the stir?" he asked. "Well, that seems entirely undemonic of you, my dear. I can't imagine Downstairs was giving you praise for that."

"You didn't see the hat."

He chuckled. "But you're convinced that it's going to be popular some time in the future?"

"Well, you know humans. Fashion works by contraries or something. Soon as something's cool, it's on its way out."

Aziraphale, who had never understood fashion, looked confused. "Right. Whatever you say, dear."

Crowley took a gulp of tea that was decidedly too hot for such a move and suffered the burnt tongue in silence.  _ Dear  _ should have been the same as  _ dear boy. _ It didn't feel like it. "No need to ask what you've been up to," Crowley said, indicating the shop around them with an airy wave of one hand.

"Well this  _ has  _ occupied a large amount of my time," Aziraphale said, ruffling like a pleased bird, or perhaps like a 1960's housewife would after receiving a compliment to her chicken gelatin dinner, had the 1960's been invented yet. "But I have been about in the country a few times."

"Run into anyone interesting?"

"I met a lovely young writer named Jane. I don't think she's gotten any real attention yet, but I think she's reinventing the genre of women's writing. I've read a few of her things. Quite romantic, really. But not in the way a man might expect, you know."

"You'll be carrying her stuff here, I expect?"  _ Romantic. _ The thought of Aziraphale reading love stories set Crowley on edge; he put down his cup.

"Oh almost certainly," he said, an angelic smile nearly folding his face in half. "She's quite wonderful."

Aziraphale clearly had no idea the things it did to Crowley, hearing  _ that  _ voice, seeing  _ that  _ look. "Oh,  _ wonderful," _ said Crowley, in a poor imitation of Aziraphale's accent.

"She is!" he replied. "Once I get a copy of one of her books in, I'll be sure to lend it to you so you can understand what I mean." Not that Crowley read, but surely the suggestion would be enough.

"Would've thought you'd learned by now what happens when books get lent out," Crowley said. "I expect you'd be displeased if it never returned."

"But I know  _ you  _ would return it to me," Aziraphale said, "because you know exactly how displeased I would be with you."

Even the thought of such a situation made Crowley unhappy to contemplate, so he supposed Aziraphale was right. Not that he would admit it. "Might not be on purpose," Crowley said, allowing a slow grin to appear. "All sorts of accidents happen out there, angel, anything at all. Without you around to  _ protect _ them."

"But I'm sure you would protect my books, if it meant making me happy," said Aziraphale, beginning to smile impishly— well, as impishly as an angel could— in return. "And I'm sure you wouldn't put them in harm's way unnecessarily."

_ For you, I would guard them with my life. _ "Sure, if you say so."

He scoffed and finished his cup of tea. "Not like you would read them anyway." He stood and poured himself another cup, taking the time to straighten some of the things hanging around the back room.

"Probably not," said Crowley, before he could picture himself holding a book Aziraphale had given him, placing his fingers in the same place Aziraphale's had been, seeing which passages were underlined and which pages the spine fell open to most easily, reading not only the text but its history as something of Aziraphale's. Like the words were still warm in his hands.

"Well, then I suppose we don't have to worry about it," Aziraphale said, catching the tail end of Crowley's wistful look. Without warning, the memory of those nights in Constantinople, that conversation, flew into his brain like he had been hit with a bat. He turned away and stirred sugar into his tea so that Crowley wouldn't see the look on his face.

Crowley noticed and wondered what he'd done wrong. "Never worry, me," he said, which was significantly less true than most things he said in Aziraphale's presence.

Aziraphale hummed. "I suppose it wouldn't be in your nature," he said, finally forcing himself to sit back down on the couch across from Crowley.

Crowley's nature was to observe. To gather knowledge and make use of it: which behaviours people could be enticed into, and how; which gases made the brightest colors when fusing together in a vast vacuum; which foods were the particular favourite of a hedonistic angel. Observation was not a pastime that lent itself to not-worrying. Crowley was aware— always aware— of the many things which might warrant concern, even as he brushed them aside. If you were only looking at the way he justified  _ not _ worrying, it was very easy to come to the conclusion that he  _ wasn't  _ worried.

He stretched and crossed one leg over the other, for reasons that had nothing to do with testing how far Aziraphale was and if Crowley's legs could reach him. Crowley didn't like to lie to Aziraphale, but he was exceptionally good at lying to himself.

Aziraphale watched him sprawl out in a way he had only ever done in public taverns or on park benches. Crowley never threw himself over furniture in private places. He hadn't done it in Aziraphale's hostel room in Constantinople. But now he was doing it here in the back of Aziraphale's brand new bookshop. What did that mean? It seemed to reveal some sort of comfort in the space. Maybe things were finally getting back to normal. "More tea?"

"Oh, I shouldn't," said Crowley, and held out his cup anyway.

Aziraphale took it and filled it again, handing it back over as he sat down once again. "Well. What should we talk about now?"

The first thing that came to mind was the other angels' appearance here. Standing too close, smiling too brightly. Intruding in Aziraphale's shop— which was an absurd thing to think, since  _ he _ was the one who shouldn't be here. Surely a pair of colleagues had more right to visit than did a hereditary enemy.

Crowley didn't want to talk about them, but he had to be sure. "So you're not being reassigned after all?"

"Oh," Aziraphale said, remembering the drama from earlier that day. "No, it doesn't seem like it, thankfully. It would have been horrible if I was sent back to Heaven just after opening my bookshop. I've no idea why they decided to change their minds, though."

Crowley hid a secret smile and shrugged. "Must've caught wind of what a treacherous opponent you've got to go up against," he said.

"Oh yes," said Aziraphale, sipping from his cup primly. "Certainly no one in Heaven would be able to face you. Not even Michael." He fought a smile, remembering the  _ Michael's a wanker! _ from that morning. "And I'm sure there's no one in Hell more capable than you."

Crowley preened. "Oh, go on," he said, grinning, thinking,  _ They can't touch what we have. None of them. _

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows at Crowley's sinful smile. He had been being sarcastic, but it seemed cruel to point that out now, even though Crowley looked  _ far  _ too pleased with himself. "Well, I've never had the displeasure of meeting Hastur or Ligur, but surely they'd either send the very useless or the very capable up here. In Heaven it's much the same."

"Mm. And which are you?"

"Oh, I'm among the very useless," he said, turning his teacup around in its saucer a few times and looking at the gold lacing along its edge.

"Bollocks," said Crowley fiercely, surprising himself. He cleared his throat and took a sip of tea, as if that would unsay it. He hadn't  _ meant  _ to let it out. He'd just... He'd seen the way Aziraphale was frowning slightly, forehead too pinched for the lighthearted joke Crowley had intended this to be, fingers worrying at the cup before him. He didn't think Aziraphale was being entirely facetious, and that could not be stood for.  _ You're perfect, _ he wanted to say.  _ You're better than any of them, in every way that matters. Angel, Aziraphale, if I could make you see what you are. _ He settled for, "They don't know what they've got."

"Well, they know I'm the angel who gave away his God-Given sword," Aziraphale said, smiling after seeing the fierceness in Crowley's face. Of course, he knew Aziraphale too well to be fooled by the lightness he’d forced into his voice. "I'm not exactly amongst the Host's Finest."

_ As if they'd know goodness when they saw it. _ Crowley bit his tongue. Blasphemy was one thing, compliments another. "Yeah, well, my lot wouldn't be thrilled if they knew I was out blessing nunneries or whatever you had me doing last time, so. Fit company."

"Well of course not," Aziraphale said. He decided not to mention that the Arrangement had been Crowley’s idea in the first place. Something told him it wouldn't do much good. Not that their respective Head Offices would really care. "Neither of us are really what our sides want us to be, hm?"

"If they only knew," said Crowley, nodding. He raised his teacup. "To them never finding out."

Aziraphale raised his in response. "To..." he searched for the word. "Fraternizing." He smiled.

Crowley hid his face by finishing off his tea.

"Where are you living nowadays?" Aziraphale asked, watching as Crowley ducked into his cup. "Or are you just vagabonding?"

"Hanging about London mostly," Crowley said with a shrug. "Big city, lots of people to lead into temptation, you know how it is."

"Oh yes, I'm familiar with all your usual haunts. I'm sure you didn't want to go too far." He thought for a moment. "Would you like some wine, my dear?"

"Already stayed too long," Crowley started to say.  _ What if they're still looking, what if they come back? _ But he changed his mind at the look Aziraphale was giving him. "Yeah, whatever you've got."

Aziraphale stood and putted over to the wine cabinet, taking out an expensive bottle from several years ago. "I picked this up from France," he said, pouring them both a generous glass full. "I'm sure you'll like it."

"Anything you chose, angel," said Crowley, and hoped that it sounded more like _ I respect your culinary taste _ and less like  _ I would do anything you asked of me. _ Both of which were true, of course, but only one of which could be implied without cause for alarm.

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows at Crowley. He supposed there might be a way to interpret that as admitting Aziraphale's good taste. But this was Crowley. He sat, not responding, and sipped.

Crowley didn't know what to make of the expression on Aziraphale's face, so he resisted the urge to slam his head into a wall, and drank. If this was good enough wine, the result would be about the same.

Aziraphale looked around the back room, thinking about where he might put more storage when he inevitably got the need for it. "Have you ever considered settling down?" he asked.

Crowley inhaled wine, because for a moment he'd thought— Well, it was a stupid thought, really, but it had sounded like... He coughed. "No," he said, truthfully enough; he had no real reason to stay in a single place. Or he never had before. If Aziraphale was going to be sticking around on a long-term basis to run the shop, Crowley's plans could easily change. "Er. Why?"

"Well, I was just thinking," said Aziraphale. "I kind of like this. Having a place, an excuse not to move around. I still will, of course, when Upstairs has a need, but it always felt odd, drifting around. It's nice to have a place that's  _ mine." _

A funny sort of ache built in Crowley at the words, as he pictured it. A place to stay. A resting point. The word  _ home  _ was nauseatingly gooey, but it... had a certain appeal. He looked around the room too, imagining: Aziraphale's coat hanging over a chair there, his favourite books left lying open here, a plate full of crumbs neglected there: the debris of a life that wasn't upturned every few months for a new assignment, a new location. Walls painted the colour of his choice, furniture either bought or miracled to match the carpet. A place for everything, and half of it left out to be tidied away at a later date that never really seemed to arrive. Piles upon piles of books and a well-stocked pantry and most of all a sense of belonging. Crowley was never sure whether his imagination was more blessing or curse but it was powerful, and it was showing him the details of the picture Aziraphale's vague words had painted.

And he wanted it. He was always wanting around Aziraphale, in touches and in words and in glances behind tinted glass, but this was something different, something else; Crowley wanted to have someplace he could call  _ his. _ Somewhere to kick off his shoes at the end of the day and fall into a bed that was always exactly how he liked it, and not someone else's cheap linen. Somewhere to be when he wasn't at work. Somewhere Hell hadn't told him to be, but couldn't fault him for.

_ A place that's mine, _ Crowley thought, in echo of Aziraphale, and for a very brief moment his stomach dipped as he wondered,  _ Ours? _ But even he wasn't ready to consider anything like that (they'd shared a room once, twice, and it had been exquisite agony, and he couldn't be prepared for that again). When his head was done spinning, he said, "Sure, yeah, can see the appeal I suppose."

"You don't like to have nearly as many  _ things  _ as I do, though, so maybe you wouldn't like to," Aziraphale amended thoughtfully. Crowley never seemed to have any possessions, save his glasses. He was enigmatic, in that way. "I'm not entirely sure what you would put in your place, if you had one. Seems like it would be an awful lot of empty space."

Empty space was part of the appeal. Room to breathe, to stretch without bumping into anyone, to simply _ be. _ But Aziraphale had never been to Hell and he wouldn't understand. "I could get some things. Got a couple of art pieces I've been holding on to, get a few pieces of furniture... The bed's the important thing really."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. Crowley's demonic status made him automatically assume the worst in that response. "Is it now?" he asked. "And what exactly goes into having a satisfactory bed?" Aziraphale had never had much use for them, of course.

Crowley blinked. Odd question. "Dunno, something you can sleep in. Soft enough. Firm enough. Good sheets. You're familiar with the idea of a bed, aren't you?"

Aziraphale waved his hand at him. "Yes, of course I'm familiar," he said. "I just don't have a preference. If I were to use one, so long as it's horizontal and flat and has a mattress, I don't really see a difference."

"And you call yourself cultured." Crowley sniffed. "You're lucky you know a thing or two about wine."

He sniffed back at him. "A thing or two," he muttered. "And I know about art, and literature. Both things you couldn't care less about."

Crowley gave in to the fundamental need to stick one's tongue out at the unrepentantly annoying.

"How mature of you, oh Thousand Year Old Demon of Hell," Aziraphale said, resisting the urge to stick his tongue out in response.

It was tricky, Crowley discovered, to pull off a bow from the waist while sprawled on a couch. And while holding half a glass of good wine. And after having drunk the other half of the glass. He gave an approximation of the motion and laughed.

Aziraphale tried to look chastising, but couldn't manage it through his smile. "You will be the death of me," he said, unconsciously adopting a human idiom.

Three angels walk into a bookshop with a demon outside, seven years after a prison break and more flagrant rule-breaking than ever before. Crowley's pulse hesitated. "Let's hope not," he muttered.

"I can't imagine the praise you would get," Aziraphale said, chuckling. "Being the one responsible." He saw how poorly Crowley responded to that. "But I know you wouldn't. Not on purpose. At any rate."

Crowley shifted in his seat.  _ You know I would never hurt you; you know I would rather die myself a thousand times over than let harm come to you; you know I would carry all your pain and fear myself if I could. You know what I mean by this even if you won't let me say any of it. _ "No," he whispered, the laughter of a moment ago gone. "No, I wouldn't."

Aziraphale swallowed hard and was silent for a moment before saying, his voice feather-light and paper-thin, "Crowley..." He looked down into his glass. "I ought not to say this, but you are quite a good friend."

"You oughtn't, you shouldn't,"  _ you can't, it isn't safe, _ "don't say that. I should— I shouldn't be here." Crowley finished his wine, set down his glass, and stood.

Aziraphale hurriedly stood up as well. "I'm sorry I offended you," he said, taking a step after him. "I—"  _ I thought it would make you happy, knowing in what few terms I can that I love you. _ "I shouldn't have. You're right. I won't keep you."

"M'not— Yeah. Okay."

"I'll... show you out then." He went quickly past him towards the door and opened it for Crowley. "Be safe," Aziraphale said, worrying around his fingertips.

The tiniest of smiles which only Aziraphale could see. "Be careful."

He met Crowley’s eyes as he smiled, and then looked down at the floor. "Good night, dear boy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [John Hetherington](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Hetherington) is often credited as the inventor of the top hat.  
> Aziraphale, of course, is talking about Jane Austen. Keep an eye out for her return...


	6. Losing Control of the Wheel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more for those who don't have the canon timeline memorized: since we last saw the two of them, they've met up three times. In 1862, Crowley asked for holy water; in 1941, Crowley rescued Aziraphale and his books during the Blitz; in 1967, Aziraphale gave him holy water.  
> CW for food and alcohol in this chapter. This chapter also begins our foray into footnotes, so it is worth noting (haha) that these are set up so you can hover over them instead of clicking back and forth, though clicking will work too!

#  **1996: Soho**

One hundred and thirty-ish years passed, as years did for them: in heartbeats, measured in clandestine meetings and arguments about unnameable things, in eye contact and yearning. Since that night in the church Aziraphale had been forced to come to terms with what he could no longer avoid. He had known it, somehow, deep down, from the beginning. But it had always been hidden behind his fear. He was still afraid now. In some ways, he was more afraid. But his paranoia had been numbed by time, and while he couldn't bear to meet Crowley in the middle, give him everything he wanted and what he deserved, on fair days, at rare times, he did not shy away from their fingers brushing together as they passed a bottle back and forth. He didn't have to flinch when he instinctively placed his hand on Crowley's shoulder, feeling his bones so close to the surface.

And he did not avoid inviting Crowley out to nice dinners or nights at the theater. It had been their lot for thousands of years. 

So, naturally, when  _ Les Misèrables _ opened in Duisburg, he called Crowley up to ask if he might accompany him.

Crowley hadn't been to Germany in over fifty years, not since bombshells and briefcases. He said yes, and picked Aziraphale up from the shop in the same car that had taken them away from that night. Crowley glanced at Aziraphale and wondered if he was remembering, too, the last time he'd been in that seat. (Neon lights and the barest touch of hands; muffled noise from outside that didn't quite cover the sound of a heartbreak; a gift and an apology and a statement of trust all in one, and still not enough.) Crowley pressed his foot down harder on the pedal as if he could outrun his memories, and said nothing.

Aziraphale dug his fingernails into his trouser legs, but out of respect for the silence Crowley had established in the car, he did not comment on it as the radio sang about long hard lives and being in love. What songs had Crowley listened to that night? 

After a few minutes like this, he ventured to say, "We'll have to get a hotel."

Crowley knew better than to read too much into those words. "Sure," he said, and thought no more of it. It was a logical thing to say, well within the bounds of this almost-friendly excursion. Of course they would need somewhere to spend the night. Maybe they'd even have adjacent rooms, and Crowley could lie awake picturing Aziraphale sitting on the other side of their shared wall.

"Although," Aziraphale chuckled, "it seems like a waste to pay for two rooms." He swallowed. "But I don't know where I would stay, during the night." The last time had been want shrouded in necessity. But now... that shroud seemed pointless. Even if they couldn't have anything named, anything too obvious, anything inherently blasphemous (this Arrangement was damning enough), what was the harm in want shrouded by practicality?

The Bentley sped up a little more. "A conundrum," said Crowley, gripping the steering wheel tighter. Surely Aziraphale wasn't saying what it sounded like; surely there was some other explanation. He couldn't think what that would be. But he didn't dare say anything so bold himself. "Got any ideas?"

"Well, I suppose they might have  _ two _ bed rooms," he said. "But it always feels wasteful to me to stay in a room with a bed I won't use. Ever since I got the shop it just feels odd." He glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. Surely they were both thinking of the same thing. The same night. "I suppose we might... Share a room. If you were comfortable with that sort of thing." The radio lamented about hard fights, learning to care and trust. He tried to tune it out.

_ Comfortable  _ was entirely the wrong word. Of all the many, many words in the English language, "comfortable" was the very last Crowley would pick to describe his state at the idea of sharing a single-bed room with Aziraphale. Again. And yet: "That sounds reasonable." Why did his mouth insist on acting without permission? Somehow, wondrously, he didn't sound as breathless as he felt. Small mercies.

_ Reasonable. _ That didn't sound like comfortable. But this  _ was _ practicality, after all. Things had changed after that night with the thermos. Initially, he had thought it would make things better. Easier. Now that Aziraphale didn't agonize over every little thing, it felt like Crowley did. Or maybe he always had, and Aziraphale had only just recently started noticing. "I suppose we can decide when we get there," he said.

Now Crowley regretted the breakneck pace he had set the car at, but it would be too noticeable if he slowed it now. Germany approached at the same speed, and with it the inevitability of making that decision. "No rush," said Crowley.  _ You go too fast. _ Was this slow enough? The car rattled over a pothole and he winced. Maybe he could ease off the gas just a bit.

Aziraphale swallowed. That was exactly the problem, wasn't it. As the Bentley hit the pothole Aziraphale gasped and grasped at the handle above the window with one hand. "God Almighty, Crowley, mightn't you slow down the car a bit?!" he nearly shrieked, but managed to control the volume of his voice halfway through the sentence.

Crowley was already doing just that, but he scowled. "Why don't you drive, then?"

"You know damn well I don't know how," he snapped. "You don't have to drive like a maniac! We have twenty-four hours to get there, and I would rather  _ not  _ be discorporated!" He took a shaky breath, laying his unoccupied hand over his heart, and then finally laid both of his hands in his lap as the car mercifully slowed down. He let out another breath. "I'm sorry," he said slowly, deliberately. "For... bringing Her into it." He waved his hand. Encouraged by the confidentiality of the Bentley, he added, "I don't want this trip to be utter torture. So if there's something... you would like to tell me, just say it."

Crowley swallowed.  _ Eyes on the road. Don't look at him. Don't let him see. _ "What would I have to tell you?" What hadn't already been made painfully clear thirty years ago? The radio was still warbling about sentimental rot and he smacked at it until it shut off. "Got something in particular you want to hear?"

_ Hundreds of things, none of which I can ask for. _ "It's clear to me that there's something on your mind. I'd like to know if it has something to do with me. And anything I can do to mend it, is all."

"Nope." Crowley bared his teeth in the roughest semblance of a grin. "Thinking about French theatre's all."

Aziraphale watched him growl, bare his teeth like an animal, and backed down. "Alright, Crowley. Whatever you say." He settled back into the silence, staring out the window. Perhaps sharing a room wasn't the best idea.

Crowley hesitated, regretful. Maybe Aziraphale had really meant it. It wouldn't be very angelic to lie, after all. What if the question had been sincere? And he'd wasted his chance. "Did you want the music on?" he said finally, because that was safer than addressing the new tension in the air between them.

"If you like," Aziraphale said. "I don't have a preference." He didn't care for this type of music, it was just background noise. It or the buzz of the asphalt as they sped over it, it didn't matter to him. He didn't take his eyes away from the window.

Well then. "Great," said Crowley, fucking excellent, some music to cover the loudness of this silence, so he fiddled with the controls until a song came on. And just as he began to recognise the lyrics, something about facing the blues and giving satisfaction, the music cut off.

_ ARE YOU THERE, CROWLEY _

"Oh," said Crowley, with a glance at Aziraphale. The speedometer was flashing a hundred; road signs were flying past and their turning was approaching.  _ Fuck. _ "Of course I'm here, where else would I be."

_ WE HAVE INTELLIGENCE WE WOULD COMMUNICATE, CROWLEY _

"I... Can it wait?" A stupid question but what else was new. There was no way out of this one. He squirmed.

Aziraphale's eyes widened to about the size of golf balls. He looked in panic at Crowley. What should he do? Should he— put his hands over his ears? He looked back at the radio. Was this how Hell communicated with its agents?

_ THIS IS A MATTER THAT REQUIRES IMMEDIATE ATTENTION, CROWLEY _

"Right. Yeah. Sure." Crowley closed his eyes, remembered he was driving, and gave the wheel a random wiggle. He gritted his teeth and ignored the frantic looks Aziraphale was giving him. "Uh. What is it, then?"

_ YOUR SERVICES HAVE BEEN NOTED, CROWLEY _

"Have they? Oh good," said Crowley, wondering why the earth didn't just swallow him, and then frightened that it would.

_ YOU ARE BEING RECALLED FROM ACTIVE DUTY, CROWLEY _

Which seemed to make the floor-opening-up scenario a lot more likely.

Aziraphale gasped and then clapped his hands over his mouth. He swallowed hard. They were taking him back? It was a miracle that Aziraphale hadn't been taken back to Heaven. How was Crowley going to avoid getting brought back down to Hell?

"Is that—" Crowley swallowed. "May I ask why, lord?"

_ AS A REWARD FOR YOUR MISSION WELL COMPLETED, CROWLEY _

"Ah." He drummed his fingers along the steering wheel and thought hard. "But it isn't completed, lord."

_ DO YOU NOT WISH TO RETURN, CROWLEY _

"No! Yes! Of course I do. Of course, lord. It's just— well, there's the angel Aziraphale still roaming about."

Aziraphale, hands still pressed hard into his lips, stared at Crowley, watching him as he muddled his way through this conversation. It was clear enough that Crowley didn't much like the leadership down there, but, well— it was reassuring, he supposed, that after everything, he really  _ did  _ want to stay up here. With him.

_ YOUR REPLACEMENT WILL RESUME YOUR TASKS, CROWLEY. THIS ONE INCLUDED. ONE ANGEL IS NO MATCH FOR ANY OF OUR ARMY, CROWLEY _

"Right," said Crowley again, desperately trying not to look at Aziraphale. "I'm sure you're right, lord. Only..."

_ ONLY WHAT, CROWLEY _

"Well. It's just that this specific angel is... He's a lot to handle, lord. And I've grown used to his ways."  _ Oh fuck don't look at him don't look this would be a really bad time to make eye contact. _ "It's taken me centuries of work, millennia really, I'd hate to see it all wasted for some new demon who can barely walk upright."

_ A lot to handle?! _ Aziraphale nearly reached over and smacked Crowley, but resisted. He glared, hands on hips— looking entirely ridiculous, seeing as he was still strapped into a car.

_ YOUR PROFICIENCY IN THE FIELD HAS BEEN DOCUMENTED, CROWLEY _

Damn right it had. He'd made sure of that with every fudged report, every hours-long presentation. His reputation was the only thing separating him from most of the mud-dwellers Down There and no fussy angel was going to ruin that now.

"Thank you, lord."

_ THE ANGEL AZIRAPHALE IS INDEED TROUBLESOME TO OUR CAUSE, CROWLEY _

Crowley fought back the mad and fatal urge to laugh. "I know, lord."

_ WE HAVE EVEN RECEIVED REPORTS THAT HE MAY BE SOMEWHERE NEARBY, CROWLEY. MAYBE EVEN VERY CLOSE NEARBY. HE MAY BE PLANNING SOMETHING, CROWLEY _

Aziraphale's eyes turned to the radio. This was ridiculous. This was. This was— poppycock! No wonder Heaven always beat Hell; it was run by absolute morons! Troublesome? He was almost certain that any and all "trouble" Hell had received from him had been Crowley's doing.

"I'm sure he is, lord," Crowley said, and let himself crack a smile purely for Aziraphale's sake. "He always is."

_ YOU WOULD KNOW, CROWLEY _

"Yes, lord," he agreed, and added quickly, "and I could find out what it is if I stayed up here. No use pulling me back now when there's angels about. Plotting their nefarious— er, good... plots." He held his breath.

A long silence from the radio, so long Crowley half-expected it to return to the music, and then:

_ YOU MAY REMAIN ON EARTH, CROWLEY. SO THAT YOU MAY FIND OUT WHAT THE ANGEL IS UP TO AND PUT A STOP TO IT. BUT THIS WILL BE BROUGHT UP FOR DISCUSSION AT YOUR NEXT REVIEW, CROWLEY _

He didn't doubt it. "Thank you, lord."

As the hellish presence— well, the one that wasn't Crowley— faded out of the car and the music returned, Aziraphale let out his breath. "Well," he said. "That's not something I'd ever want to experience again." After a moment, he turned on Crowley.  _ "A lot to handle?" _ he said, tilting his head and raising his eyebrows.

Crowley was so exhausted he was nearly dizzy. Relief was making his head spin. He was really in no fit state to drive, so he let the car slow to a steady 80. "Look, I had to say something," said Crowley defensively, which was ridiculous, "and it's not like I could tell them,  _ Oh, sure, lord, he's actually right here, d'you wanna have a quick word?" _

"You could have said nearly anything else," Aziraphale retorted. He scoffed. "Well, at least you're staying, I suppose."

"Yeah."  _ For now. _ Crowley didn't bother to voice the fear that he wouldn't survive his next review, choosing instead to focus on the way Aziraphale said  _ You're staying  _ like it was important to him. "Lucky you. No new demon to get used to, probably trailing slime all over London."

Aziraphale gave an audible shudder. "I'm quite relieved I've never had the displeasure of  _ meeting  _ any of your coworkers." No new demon to get used to, indeed. And he wouldn't lose his only friend.

"Mm. They're not as pretty as I am."

Aziraphale paused mid-word, mouth still open, and looking over at him. "My dear Crowley, that may be the vainest thing I've ever heard you say." Despite the chastising tone, he couldn't help but smile.

Crowley winked over the sunglasses. "Vanity's a sin, angel, it goes with the rest of my look."

Aziraphale quickly looked out the windshield. "Yes, and I suppose you invented it," he replied, fighting the blood in his face at seeing honey-gold eyes in the darkness of the Bentley.

"Falls under Original Sin, doesn't it?" Vanity in dress was certainly tied to the notion of clothing in the first place, and Crowley had definitely had a hand... well, a tail in that.

"Something like that," Aziraphale said. "One would think being around an angel would turn you away from such things." Not that he was completely free of Sin himself.

Crowley made a noise in the back of his throat. "Absolutely not. Don't be revolting."

Aziraphale laughed, half in amusement, half in exasperation. "Oh, so I'm revolting now, am I?" he asked jokingly, crossing his arms across his chest. "Of course, anything half as gorgeous as you must be, if I know my arithmetic."

Crowley bit back a squeak and hoped the flush he could feel rising wasn't visible. "Don't bring maths into this now. I'll have you know I am personally responsible for two branches of trigonometry and one of calculus."

"Of course you were," Aziraphale said, rolling his eyes. "Can't be bothered with philosophers and poets, but you  _ love  _ getting cosy with the scientists."

Science was worth it, in Crowley's not-so-humble opinion. In the time since their last meeting, man had walked on the moon. With any luck, Aziraphale wouldn't remember that Crowley had promised to read classic literature when that happened. "As if you don't  _ get cosy _ with your precious writer chaps."

"Hmph," said Aziraphale, knowing exactly what he meant but not wanting to confirm it by correcting him. "As if you've never gotten...  _ cosy _ with anyone over the years."

"Means nothing."  _ It's only you. _ "Was a lot of years."  _ It's only ever been you. _

"Leave it to you to avoid forming attachments," he said. "I almost envy you. Humans are so lovely, but so short-lived." He reached out and ran his fingertips along the window beside him.

"The sort I hang out with is usually the type I'll be seeing again," Crowley said, and shrugged. "Makes things awkward, from a professional standpoint."

Aziraphale chuckled. "Yes, I suppose that's true," he said. "I don't really have that luxury. Most of my acquaintances weren't really fit to get into Heaven."

Crowley nodded. "Which is why you would seek out their company, no doubt. To be a guiding light." He supposed by that logic he ought to have been chumming it up with saints and suchlike, but that would be no fun.

Aziraphale cleared his throat and straightened a cuff. "Yes, quite," he said. "Never seems to work, unfortunately." Really, he found quite the kinship in these humans. And the relationships he had with them occasionally gave him a type of thrill. It wasn't outright forbidden for Aziraphale to interact with humans, mostly looked down on because of how odd it was. It was certainly safer than fraternizing with a certain demon.

"Mhmm... Tell me again how goodness always prevails, angel." Crowley caught himself smiling fondly and adjusted it to a smirk.

"It does, in the—" a waft of the hand— "grand scheme of things.  _ You  _ can't exactly gloat about one or two evil people in the whole world." He wondered if, now that the tension had been resolved, and Crowley seemed in good spirits having escaped the requirement to return to Hell, he might be more inclined to agree to sharing a hotel room for the night.

"Oh, can't I?" Crowley caught sight of the upcoming motorway exit and swore loudly and violently: they'd missed their turning ages ago. He spun the wheel and veered across several lanes of traffic until the Bentley joined the opposite side of the dividing lines; the protective cement barrier was conveniently absent, because he'd sent it to the bottom of the Atlantic seconds before.

Aziraphale gasped and made a noise like a frightened owl.  _ "Please  _ don't do that again!" he pleaded, one hand against the window and the other pressed into the side of Crowley's seat as though to keep himself in place while Crowley crashed the car. "I'm going to die of fright!"

Crowley glanced down at Aziraphale's right hand, so near to his side, and said, "Pff, my driving doesn't hurt anyone." He beat back with a large mental stick any thoughts that sounded like  _ I'll protect you _ and  _ Closer please, I want to feel you, want your hands on me. _ He leaned on the horn until the lorry in front of him picked up the pace enough for him to jump out from behind it to change lanes. Someone shouted at him. He made a rude gesture out the window and they subsided. "Never permanently anyhow."

"Not  _ yet, _ at any rate," Aziraphale said, "and I would very much like to keep it that way. At least  _ warn _ me, next time." He replaced his hands in his lap, though he was still shaking slightly. He let out a breath. "If I had the mind I would sleep like a baby after all you've put me through tonight."

"Nothing stopping you," said Crowley, with a lightness he did not feel.

"That's why I said if I had the mind," he said. "In fact, what's stopping me is this novel I've been reading. It's absolutely invigorating. I'm nearly finished and I think I could be done with it by tomorrow night."

So Aziraphale didn't intend to sleep tonight. In which case there would be nothing untoward about renting a single-bed room with him, for economic purposes. Purely a practical decision on Crowley's part. There couldn't possibly be anything else, not just after receiving a special warning about— "Oh. I'm meant to be thwarting you in some upcoming plot. What've you got?"

"Oh… I'm meant to keep a pub from opening in London in a few weeks. Upstairs seems to think it will invite all sorts of sin and debauchery in the area." It wasn't exactly world-shattering stakes, but he supposed it could be busywork until The Next Big Thing.

"Not tremendously exciting," Crowley noted. It'd have to be something a bit more spectacular to justify his failure to return to less pleasant work in Hell, where he couldn't zip down motorways en route to live performances in good (Good) company. "Any chance I could tempt you into setting up something with a little more pop for the bosses' sake?"

"You can  _ ask," _ Aziraphale said, wanting to avoid anything in the vicinity of Temptation. "What did you have in mind?"

There were any number of things Crowley wished Aziraphale would let him do. "Dunno. Hang on, I'm gonna be turning again, we're across from our exit."

Aziraphale took a deep breath, shut his eyes, and held on to his armrests, preparing for his stomach to drop through the floor.

After another sequence of death-defying and highly-illegal traffic maneuvres, the Bentley made its way off the motorway. "So. Big plans I can wreck. Thoughts?"

Aziraphale groaned as he opened his eyes again. "I don't know," he said. "A saint you can tempt? A— a— political figure you can help assassinate? My Side doesn't have any big plans at the moment."

"Thought there weren't any saints left these days?" said Crowley, squinting at the directions for the Channel Tunnel. "Least not any officially recognised ones. Assassination's not bad but I'm not much for the up-close messy kind myself. We can work out the rest later if we must."

"Well perhaps the reason is because you keep tempting them," Aziraphale replied lightly. "I could always...  _ invent _ something. Pick a random priest and show him what sort of Heavenly Majesty is in store if he continues on this path, et cetera, and then you could lead him away."

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Could work, yeah." They began the ascent to the upper double deck of the Eurotunnel shuttle.

"Well, I don't see you putting forth any brilliant ideas," Aziraphale said. "This really isn't in my nature." He had been in the car when whatever lord of Hell had given Crowley the assignment, but he couldn't help but feel like it was an attempt on Crowley's part to see Aziraphale do something less than Angelic. To test and see if he would do it as a favor. Perhaps he was being paranoid.

_ Sorry, _ Crowley nearly said, which left a strangely strangled hiss, and then, "Didn't mean to pressure you, angel. Just. I'm just tired, I guess."

Aziraphale glanced at him again. It was so hard to read him, with his glasses that had gotten bigger over the past few centuries, obscuring more of his face. How much of their miscommunication was caused by the shroud he threw over his eyes? "It's alright, dear boy," he said. "We don't have to decide now. I'm sure it's not pressing. I  _ do  _ want to enjoy this trip with you. It's been so long since we've had any... social visits." He deliberately didn't count The Handoff as a social visit. There was... too much there. Social visits were meant to be positive experiences.

What  _ was  _ the last time they'd met up for something like this? The bookshop opening? Salem? Hamlet? Centuries ago. "It has," Crowley had to agree, and left it at that. He didn't want to think about why it was true, or what he had in his safe at the flat, or how it had felt to be seated exactly where they were and to know that certain things were mutually understood though never spoken (never, ever to be spoken). It didn't seem possible that Hell should have contacted him in this same car and not known its history. But then there was a lot Hell didn't know. "What play's this anyway,  _ Les Misèrables _ —" butchering the pronunciation just for fun— "it's not a gloomy one again...? S'pose it'd have to be with a name like that."

"It's a musical," he said, "about revolution and love and community. It's based off a Victor Hugo novel. Lovely bit of reading. Long. I'm sure you'll enjoy it. For the music, if nothing else." Because it was rather gloomy, but some of the best pieces of media were!

"The French Revolution," Crowley said, mulling it over. "No, we were  _ there, _ angel, and I don't recall very much singing going on at the time."

"Well of course there wasn't," Aziraphale replied, rolling his eyes. "And it's not like we had a very good view from where we were standing." He smoothed the wrinkles in his trousers. "It's a work of fiction that happens to be placed during the time period. Plenty of authors do that, you know that."

Crowley made a face. "Fiction." He had enough unrealistic hopes and what-ifs in his own head without seeking out other people's.

"You like Shakespeare's fiction well enough," Aziraphale pointed out. "I'm sure you'll enjoy it." He hoped he would, at least. He'd be miserable if he dragged Crowley along to something he didn't even care about.

"Will knew what he was doing," said Crowley. "I don't know this Victor bloke from Adam. But sure, I'll give it a go. I'm here, aren't I?"

"Yes, you are." Like he always was.

_ Here _ was now France. Crowley noted the speed limit change and promptly exceeded it, out of principle. "These people drive like maniacs," he said proudly.

"I'd imagine it has something to do with you," Aziraphale said without venom as he gazed fondly out the window. "What would you say to some crêpes, my dear? I'm absolutely famished after being in the car so long."

"Yeah, anything you like," said Crowley, and pointed at the glove compartment, where he kept the Bentley's maps. "Find a place and get the directions, would you? If we've got any French stuff in there."

Aziraphale opened the glovebox and pulled out a series of maps of Europe, sorting through them until he found one of this area of France. He looked around for some restaurants in places that weren't likely to be tourist traps and instead genuine places that would be good to eat. "Oh, right, so turn up on this next street."

Crowley obeyed, swerving around the pedestrian who'd stepped into the street while making eye contact. "Wanker," Crowley said mildly. He wasn't sure which of them had had right of way, but his reaction wouldn't've changed.

"Crowley, you're going to hit someone!" Aziraphale scolded, nearly dropping the map as they swerved. "It's dark out, please slow down at least a little bit!"

He scoffed. "They like a challenge, pedestrians. Makes 'em feel alive, gets the heart racing. Next turn?"

"Right, but it's not for another few blocks. And I feel like that's a dangerous assumption to place on every person who dares walk within a mile of your car."

"Right? No, that can't be right, it was right last time, you want us going in circles?" Crowley grabbed for the map and missed. "Give, let's see."

Aziraphale snatched it out of his reach. "Not while you're driving!" he snapped. "It's an odd-shaped neighborhood, Crowley, I'm not sending us in circles."

If not for the need to steer, Crowley would have crossed his arms. He was remembering a series of meetings awhile back, some post-war rebuilding efforts, in which he'd had more than a small part of designing the street layout of most places like this. "Fine. But if we get lost,  _ you're  _ asking the locals. And I know what your French is like."

Aziraphale glowered at him. "We will  _ not _ get lost," he retorted. "I'm not completely incompetent."

"I already said fine!" Crowley took the indicated right turn.

"You said fine and  _ then _ you decided to continue the conversation." He seethed for a moment. "It's going to be on the corner in six blocks."

Crowley pulled up in front of the restaurant and was out of the car before Aziraphale even realised they'd stopped. He crossed around to open the passenger door for him.

Aziraphale blinked as Crowley flashed across the windshield like a dark blur, and then his door was open. "Oh," he said. "Um. Thank you." He folded the map and replaced it in the glove box below the hoard of sunglasses and got out. "Just a quick bite and then we can be on our way again."

"Alright." Crowley stretched until he could saunter properly once more and then followed Aziraphale inside.

They were sat down at a quiet booth table, a tealight candle in between them. Aziraphale looked through the menu. "Oh, might you refresh me on some French?" he asked. "I don't want to humiliate myself."

"Certainement, mon ange1," replied Crowley. "What're you interested in ordering?"

Aziraphale went very still for a moment as he registered that. "The erm, banana crêpes. I can read the language alright, for the most part, but when it comes time to order..." He brought the menu up in front of his face as it turned very pink. "Or perhaps strawberry."

"Serveur! Mon compagnon est prêt à donner son ordre2," said Crowley, hand in the air. "There, now you've got about a minute to choose. Longer maybe, depending on the service here."

Aziraphale put the menu down and gave him a panicked look. "Crowley!" he hissed. "Oh, dear Lord. Alright, banana! And a raspberry mimosa, if you please." He massaged the space between his eyes and shook his head.

The waiter approached. "Puis-je prendre votre commande?"

Crowley smiled. "Bonjour. Il adorerait les crêpes à la banane et un mimosa à la framboise, et j'aurai le plus vieux vin que vous serviez."

"Je m'excuse, nous ne servons pas de vin3."

Crowley dropped the smile. "Funny sort of French restaurant," he said.

"Wait, what did he say?" Aziraphale asked, leaning across the table. He only got a little bit of that.

"No wine," Crowley grumbled. "Mais vous avez des mimosas?"

"Oui," said the waiter.

"Cela signifie que vous avez du champagne."

"Oui, monsieur."

"Faites ressortir cela, alors. Merci et tout ça4."

The waiter scurried off, glad to be out of sight of the strange men at table 9. There was something  _ wrong  _ about them both. And who wore sunglasses indoors? This was Calais, not Vegas.

"Oh. You're right, it  _ is  _ a sort of funny French restaurant," Aziraphale said. "Well, I don't think you should really be drinking anyway, we've got a long way to drive yet."

"I'll sober before we get back on the road," said Crowley dismissively. "It's France, angel. À Rome fais comme les romains5."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, getting enough out of that sentence to understand. "Whatever you say, my dear." He had no idea how to get across that he found Crowley's talking in French completely endearing without actually saying such a thing, nor how to get him to continue despite the fact that Aziraphale couldn't speak more than two dozen words.

_ Whatever you say. _ "Je pourrais dire n'importe quoi," he said, casually. "Je pourrais tout te dire6. Oh look, food's here."

Aziraphale tried to contain just how chuffed listening to Crowley rattle off something incomprehensible made him, but with little success. The food arrived and he managed to thank the server in French, then took a sip from his mimosa. "Breakfast for dinner," he said. He ran a hand through his hair, and then took another drink.

Crowley raised his champagne flute as if in a toast. "Je sais que tu sais ce que je veux dire. Ça va7," and drank.

"Ça va," Aziraphale repeated, smiling widely at him as he raised his glass in reply. He quickly began eating his crêpes, anxious to get back on the road.

Crowley finished his drink first and waited for Aziraphale to catch up. "I'll get the bill," he said, and had a hurried discussion with the same frightened waiter about the price of items not technically on the menu ("Ça devrait être moins cher, il y a moins d'ingrédients" and "Cela devrait être plus cher; c'est un problème supplémentaire8," and so on). When it was all settled, Crowley leaned back in his seat. "Ready to go, mon ange?"

"Yes," Aziraphale said, thinking that  _ mon ange _ sounded rather nice. He stood and went back out to the Bentley, smiling and twirling his ring around his finger contentedly.

True to his word, Crowley miracled the alcohol from his system and shook his head as he sobered up. Then he caught sight of Aziraphale's smile and tried again. This head-spinning sensation wasn't the sort that got you pulled over by the gendarmerie nationale, though, so he spilled himself into the driver's seat and started the engine.

Aziraphale settled back in and buckled his seatbelt. "Back on the road again," he said, preparing himself emotionally for Crowley's driving.

"Voyageurs du monde! Je traverserais le globe pour toi9," said Crowley. He coughed and pretended to translate. "Er, I would... cross the globe... with you." Close enough.

Aziraphale smiled. "Well, as much fun as that might be, I think we'd probably get sick of each other within the first thousand miles." Not to mention the absolute agony of figuring out sleeping accommodations every night.

"Haven't so far and it's been as many years," Crowley said, and promptly turned on the radio so he could pretend it had covered his words.  _ That _ wasn't in French, though the weather report was. "Ugh. S'posed to rain tonight, apparently. Pretty heavily too."

"Oh dear." Aziraphale delicately decided not to mention the several disagreements they had gotten into that night alone. "Will it be a serious issue to your driving?" Surely with how quickly Crowley drove it wouldn't really be that long until they drove out of the rain area?

"Shouldn't be any issue at all," said Crowley, speeding just a little bit more to be safe— well. To be sure of getting there faster, anyhow. "We ought to be at the hotel by the time it starts, according to their predictions. Any chance you'd know otherwise?"

He raised an eyebrow at Crowley, before shutting his eyes. "No, I don't think so," he said. "If you go at the frankly horrific rate you're currently going, at least."

"Speed limit's 80, angel, and I've got a reputation to uphold." Crowley grinned.

"A reputation? What, your reputation to me? I'm the only one who sees your driving, my dear."

"Now who isn't thinking of pedestrians?" Crowley passed another car, the driver of which shouted something unflattering in French. Crowley said, "And fellows like that. Oi! Va te faire foutre10!"

"I wouldn't exactly say pissing strangers off as you whiz by them is creating a reputation," Aziraphale said mildly, glancing out the back window at the man they had just passed.

"It's about generating an expectation," Crowley explained. "Even if I haven't run  _ you _ down, you get the feeling I  _ would. _ I mean, not you, the hypothetical you. Anyway at the least it creates the right demonic energy in the area. That man's off to work his night shift and he'll forget to call his daughter, and she'll stay up late for the call that didn't come and then flunk her exam tomorrow, it all goes around. We move in mysterious ways."

"Oh, yes, this is all for work, and not because you get pleasure out of causing others mild inconvenience," said Aziraphale. "You certainly manage to generate enough 'moderately annoyed' energy in my bookshop."

"You like it," said Crowley. "Keeps the buyers out an' all. Some of it's not even my fault."

He was right; there was a certain amount of foreboding energy Aziraphale put into the shop of his own accord, but it would be unangelic of him to acknowledge that, so he didn't. "Hm, and what about in our personal life?"  _ Our. _

Crowley's brain shorted out, to the point that he actually had to use the brakes to avoid rear-ending the minivan ahead of him. He changed lanes and cleared his throat. "I don't know what you mean."

"Well, you certainly seem to get a kick out of mildly inconveniencing me," Aziraphale said, though he was smiling and mostly joking. Crowley's wicked ways and infuriating smugness were rather endearing, if he was being honest.

"It's a victory to write home about, isn't it?" said Crowley, and then tried not to wince. He'd only meant to use an idiom to lighten the tone; he hadn't meant to use a loaded word like  _ that. _ "Erm. The sort of thing we brag about to our Head Offices."

Aziraphale hummed. "I don't  _ brag _ to Head Office, my dear, but I suppose I can see your point."

"Vous valez la peine de vous vanter11," Crowley told him, in a tone that brooked no argument. "Oh, Belgium, good, halfway there then."

He frowned, unsure what Crowley said and getting the feeling he was making fun of him, taking advantage of the fact that he could speak a language Aziraphale only had a vague knowledge of. However, he was too enamored with actually  _ hearing _ the words to be  _ too _ annoyed. "Well, good," he said.

Crowley noted the tiny reaction Aziraphale had to his French and tucked it away in the back of his mind for later insertion into any of dozens of dream scenarios. "What do they speak in Belgium? Is it still French, or German, or— dunno, Swiss or something? Is Swiss a language or am I thinking of the cheese?"

"They speak Dutch in Belgium, mijn Beste12," he said, "But they do speak French quite a lot. It's one of the three most-spoken languages."

"Come here often, then? Or have you found a tourism manual somewhere."

"I've spent a bit of time here over the years," Aziraphale said. "Just as much as I spend in most other countries in Europe that aren't Britain. Why, have you never been here?"

"Not since the Carolingian, I think. Just never came up." Crowley shrugged. He wasn't keen to admit he'd steered clear deliberately:  _ crossroads of Europe _ was one thing,  _ battlefield of Europe _ another. "Does it come recommended?"

"It has its sights," he said. "Historical, and all that. It's certainly not my favorite place, but..." Aziraphale shrugged. "You'll have to come some time and find out for yourself."

"I'll go where I'm sent," said Crowley evasively. "When did you first visit?"

"Sometime in the eleven-hundreds, I believe," Aziraphale said. "And you do  _ not _ just go where you're sent, don't be ridiculous. What are you doing right now?"

Crowley resisted pointing out he hadn't said anything about  _ who _ would be sending him. Just because Hell hadn't sent him didn't mean he wasn't following instructions. "Taking the scenic route toward tempting the Union parties into receiving some anonymous funding," he said.

"Oh, oh, I see," said Aziraphale dramatically. "Yes, of course, this isn't a social visit, hm? Never social with me."

"Now don't start." Crowley sighed. There was so much he wanted to say, and couldn't. Or... "Je viendrais tous les jours si tu me le permettais. Je passerais chaque instant en ta compagnie, si tu ne me repoussais pas13."

The front-seat passenger of the car they drove past at that moment whistled. Crowley gave their car a flat tire and stared at the road ahead.

Aziraphale looked over at him. "Wait, what did you say?" he asked. He regretted never getting around to learning French, and he didn't trust his memory well enough to be able to translate what Crowley was saying later.

_ Shit. _ "Uh. Just that— you tell me not to desecrate your shop and then complain I don't visit enough? C'mon, Aziraphale, you know that isn't—"  _ fair. _ What was fair between them? "Sporting."

He rolled his eyes. "Oh yes. Perhaps you're right. It's not like you let me spread goodness and virtue into your flat or wherever it is you call home."

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Would you come if you were invited?"

Aziraphale paused, thinking about that. Would he? "I don't see why I wouldn't," he said instead, glancing at him from his periphery.

"Bit hard to explain to Them," Crowley said quietly.

"So is appearing in my bookshop," he said, "never seemed to stop you before." Was Crowley that possessive of his personal space? Did he not trust Aziraphale enough to let him in?

"Yeah, but s'different, I can always say I'm tempting and sullying. Can't really say you're, y'know,  _ purifying  _ my place in exchange." And if Aziraphale came by he would see things Crowley couldn't easily explain. Certain statues, for one thing; and the plants weren't used to strangers.

"And what can I say to  _ my _ Head Office to explain why you skulk around my place?" he asked. He was under the impression that they were past this paranoia about being watched, unless Crowley knew something he didn't.

"Oh, that  _ awful _ demon Crowley, slithering about and speaking in tongues!" Crowley laughed at his own imitation. "Dreadful nuisance, that one, really. Pushing his luck, I tell you, oh, he'll get it from me next time, see if he doesn't."

"And when we're having tea and discussing philosophy?"

"We've been having this conversation for centuries, Aziraphale," he said, suddenly tired. "What do you want me to say?"

Aziraphale frowned. "Well, nothing, I suppose. I was just— curious about the double standard, is all." It seemed every time they met up Aziraphale knew less and less of Crowley. Did they ever really talk about something that mattered? Could they do it without hating one another?

"There isn't anything I could tell you that you don't already know." Crowley sighed. "J'aimerais pouvoir arrêter d'être un putain de lâche. Que je pourrais dire ces choses d'une manière que vous pourriez entendre14. But it doesn't matter what I say, does it?"

"Of course it does!" Aziraphale exclaimed. "I'm not your enemy, Crowley." Even the French stung his ears. What was always standing in their way that made them both so tense? Perhaps it really was their nature.

Crowley ground his teeth.  _ I'm not your enemy. _ If only that were true. "Let's not talk about this."

He huffed out a breath. "Fine," he snapped. "Whatever you say."

They drove in silence through the rest of Belgium and most of the Netherlands. When they passed into Limburg, Crowley said stiffly, "We'll be in Germany soon."

"Thank goodness," said Aziraphale icily, resuming his stare out the window.

“How’s your German?”

"Meinem Deutschen geht es gut15, Crowley." He wouldn't be able to say nasty or cheeky things without Aziraphale understanding, at least.

"Fantastic, then you can deal with the hotel staff."

Oh. The hotel. "Right," he said. "What shall I tell them then?"

Crowley hesitated. What he wanted hadn't changed— never would— but he couldn't be sure if Aziraphale would still agree to that. "Anything you like." Aziraphale's choice, always.

He swallowed. He hated how Crowley always gave him the reins. He supposed he would decide when they got there whether he could bear sharing a room with Crowley for the night.

No answer, then. Crowley wasn't sure how to take that. The next time he spoke was upon crossing the final national border of their trip. "Willkommen in Deutschland, mein Engel16."

He swallowed hard, having underestimated how hearing  _ mein Engel _ would make him feel. "Willkommen indeed," he said finally.

Another truce, another compromise. "What language's this play meant to be in anyhow? Funny of you to go to the Frenchest musical imaginable. Planning on relying on my translation skills, were you? Or is it in German for the audience here?"

"I would imagine it's in German," Aziraphale said. "I'm not even sure if the original play was written in French, though I could venture a guess. I wouldn't go to a musical I wouldn't even be able to understand."

Crowley grieved for a moment the possibility of its having been in French. He could have sat so close. Leaned in to whisper explanations, lips nearly but not quite brushing Aziraphale's ear so as not to disturb the other patrons. This kind of thing usually had at least one tragically-fated couple, and who knew what sort of lines he would have had to say, to pass on to Aziraphale through other people's voices? But it was not to be. Aziraphale spoke German. "I have to commend your sensibleness," he said.

Aziraphale chuckled. "I do occasionally have moments of clarity," he said. He picked at a loose string off the edge of his jacket. "We'll have to find a way to entertain ourselves until tomorrow night," he said. "Well, I would imagine you'll be sleeping, but tomorrow morning, you know."

Morning. Waking in a hostel room with Aziraphale asleep behind him. Melon between his teeth and soft, warm skin against his tongue. "Right," said Crowley, hoping the heat in his face was unnoticeable. "Ideas?"

"Well, it's a big city, I'm sure we can find something." He took a moment from looking out the window at the countryside to watch Crowley.

He squirmed under the attention, and distracted himself by thinking up nearby attractions. "The Wallraf–Richartz Museum ought to be relatively close by," he said, smirking, "and one of theirs is a forgery but they've got no idea. Bet you can't find which."

Aziraphale’s eyebrows knit together as he frowned. "Did you steal one of their works?" he asked, leaning around and watching Crowley’s lips quirk in that infuriatingly smug smirk.

"No! No. Although... Mm. Not yet. No, I just... happen to know... that a while back they acquired a certain piece which is— how shall I put this? Not as old as they would like it to be."

He sat back and shook his head. "You're absolutely awful," he said with no conviction and an unangelic amount of affection.

"You wouldn't have me any other way. Twenty quid says you won't guess right."

"Oh, just try me," he shot back.  _ You're perfect just as you are. _

"I intend to."  _ I'd like to do everything with you. Anything. Ask me to bring you the moon, the stars, fuck, anything. Do you know what I would do for you, if you ever asked? _ "You'll let me know if you'd like a hint?"

"I will not take charity." Aziraphale crossed his arms. "I don't think you're nearly as clever as you think, you know."

Crowley deflated. "Hurtful."

He laughed. "You're very arrogant, my dear. Name one time you've actually, properly thwarted me?" They weren't keeping score, thank Heaven, but he was relatively certain that if they  _ were, _ Aziraphale would be winning.

"Oi!" Crowley frowned. "I could say the same to you, probably." Neither of them were terribly effective, were they? And the point of the Arrangement was to cut back on the amount of thwarting necessary.

"Well, there was the time—" Aziraphale cut himself off. Not only was it an ineffective example, the Holy Encouragement was not something he wanted to think about right now. Not here, in this proximity.

"You see." Crowley bit his lip.  _ He _ could think of one complete victory he'd had over Aziraphale:  _ You must be exhausted _ and heavy eyelids and slow surrender to temptation. None of that could be mentioned again. He'd told Aziraphale they wouldn't talk about it. "Then we're even."

"Well. I'm certain if I— put my mind to it. I could easily best you." Aziraphale balled his hands into fists around the edges of his jacket. He was stepping too close to the edge. Too close to the forbidden territory.

It almost sounded like a challenge, Crowley thought, so maybe he wasn't the only one remembering that night, that morning. "You're certainly welcome to try."  _ Tempt me, angel, _ he'd said, and Aziraphale had.

He swallowed hard. Remembered the look of Crowley as he had manipulated Aziraphale into feeding him— that whole experience hadn't been a temptation; more of an indulgence on both sides. "Best not to do it while we're driving," he said.

Impossible not to notice they hadn't made clear what this  _ it _ was, or would be. Crowley cleared his throat. "What's this about  _ we, _ angel, are you driving? I don't think so."

"I wouldn't want you losing control of the wheel, is all."

_ I want to lose control, though. _ Crowley gripped the wheel tighter.  _ I want to see you drop your control, just for a moment. I want to see what you look like unrestrained. _ He didn't think he could handle anything like that, though. And certainly not while zipping around in densely-trafficked areas.

Aziraphale glanced at him out of the corner of his eye as Crowley didn't respond. Saw the nearly indistinguishable lightening of his knuckles as he flexed them into the wheel. Communicating with Crowley was all body language, having little access to his face and none at all to his eyes and thoughts. He should shut this down, before they had a repeat of Constantinople. Before something worse happened. After that scene in the church, and that bit with the holy water... He cleared his throat.

Crowley startled at the sound. "You've got the map still, yeah? Has it got the museum?"

"Let me look." He dug through the glove box, past the recently-returned map of France, and pulled out a map of Germany. "Erm... yes, it seems to. Shall I look for hotels nearby?"

"Unless you've got the directions to one memorised, Aziraphale, yes, I'd like you to find a hotel nearby."

"Alright, no need to be sarcastic." Aziraphale examined the map in the dim light. "Hmm, ah, you'll want to go across this bridge up here." He leaned over so his pointing finger would be easily seen in Crowley's line of sight.

Crowley swatted at him. "Lefts and rights, angel, I'm driving here. If I wanted to read the map myself I wouldn't've asked you to do it."

"I was just pointing at the bridge! Good lord, you get grouchy when you drive." Aziraphale flicked the map in annoyance.

"I get grouchy when people wave bits of paper in my face while I'm driving," Crowley agreed. "Do I take a left or a right next?"

"Well,  _ after the bridge _ you're going to take a slight left, and then straight for a few blocks, and then a right."

By the time they arrived at the hotel, it was very late, though they'd made excellent time from London. Suspiciously excellent, every-law-shattered time. Crowley waved Aziraphale ahead. "You said you'd handle the details with the staff," he reminded him.

"Yes, yes," Aziraphale said, heading inside while Crowley did whatever it was he was doing. Once inside the lobby, he paused. What would he say? He glanced over his shoulder and then went up to the desk. Surely the staff would find it odd if two men wanted a twin-sized bed. And he knew Crowley liked larger, nicer beds. So he asked the tired-looking young man for a single queen-sized bed for the night.

"Das sind einhundert Euro für die Nacht, Sir. Hast du Gepäck?" he asked.

Crowley appeared behind Aziraphale. "Nein, nur wir."

"Raum 241," he said, and looked behind them. "Nächster17!"

Aziraphale paid and went upstairs with Crowley. He unlocked the room and went in, looking around. "A nice enough place," he said. "I hope the bed is to your liking."

Crowley poked at it. "Certainly big enough," he noted.

"Well, I wanted to alleviate suspicion."

He puzzled through that sentence and concluded that Aziraphale did not, in fact, intend to be sleeping tonight. Unsurprising. What  _ was _ surprising was Aziraphale's apparent calm about the underlying assumption that the staff would suspect... something else, instead. Crowley looked away. "Makes sense," he said, because a bored check-in clerk wasn't Heaven, so it didn't matter what he thought.

Aziraphale took his jacket off and hung it on a coat rack. "Will you be sleeping now, my dear?" he asked. He hoped Crowley had forgotten the half-conversation around temptation. Everything was too much like back then, and if they tried again, would Aziraphale be able to hold himself back?

"Sure, unless you've got a better idea," said Crowley, shrugging out of his jacket to do the same. He turned away.  _ By myself? _ he wanted to ask, and didn't.

"Well— no. Nothing in particular." Aziraphale turned away to hide his grimace. He went over to one of the living chairs situated in front of the TV and sat down, watching Crowley but pretending he wasn't.

"Night, then." Crowley sat on the edge of the bed, reluctant to let the day come to an end but unsure what he could say that wouldn't be too much.

It was dangerous, and ridiculous, and absolutely foolish, but God it felt like something was hanging between them. Aziraphale turned around and looked at him. Directly. "Do you remember Constantinople?"

Crowley almost laughed. "Do you think I could ever forget Constantinople?" He supposed it should be Istanbul now. Not then, though. And neither of them were really talking about the city.

Aziraphale swallowed the horrifically fond feeling that rose up like vomit in his throat. "No, I suppose you wouldn't." He looked down at the floor so he wouldn't have to think about the shield of glass Crowley put between them, or the things beyond them that kept them apart.

Crowley was tired, but not sleepy. He was tired of maintaining walls. He was tired of biting back words he meant and replacing them with empty ones. "Aziraphale." It was not a threat. It was partially a question. As if he were still simply preparing for bed, Crowley removed the sunglasses. He looked at Aziraphale.

He looked up as Crowley opened his eyes. He pulled his lips into his mouth and bit. "Yes, Crowley?" he asked, quiet and completely torn open.

_ I want— I can't—  _ His thoughts were a jumble. He sighed. "Can we stop pretending?" he said, so low it was hardly more than a whisper. "Just for tonight."  _ Just once. _

Aziraphale stood up but didn't cross the room. He laid a hand on the back of the chair, an anchor, a support. "Pretending?" He had told Crowley to ask him again. In a hundred years. In a thousand. He had asked, in a way, in the sixties. And Aziraphale had scorned him.

"Yes," said Crowley, and looked him in the eye.  _ Don't make me explain. You know damn well what I'm talking about. _ "You're still doing it."

He let Crowley look into him for a moment, before casting his eyes to the ground. "Old habits die hard, I suppose," he said. He had come to terms with what Crowley meant to him since that church. He had come to the conclusion that he couldn't ignore it anymore. But that didn't mean he had to acknowledge it. That didn't mean he  _ could. _

Old habits. Habits older than human civilization. They had a very particular system, a path ground into the earth with repetition, and Crowley was trying to get Aziraphale to step off the path. It wouldn't happen. He wanted to try anyway. What harm could there be in trying? He wasn't asking much. "Just tonight," he repeated.  _ And then we can go back to normal, I swear, I'll let you pretend you don't want this as much as I do and I'll pretend it didn't mean what we both know it would. Just tonight. It won't be enough. I'll make it enough. _

"And do what, Crowley?" Aziraphale demanded. "Act like— like a married couple?! Act like the only thing keeping us apart is the general attitude of the humans around us, and not something bigger and more unknowable than either of us?" Weak attempts at weak resistance. Because they both knew what the other wanted, how they aligned so closely. What could be more blasphemous? What could be more wrong? How could he plead if he was put to trial for his betrayal?

"I don't  _ care," _ said Crowley fiercely. "I want one night where we don't care, Aziraphale, one night to say fuck everything and everyone, I want—"  _ you. _ And he was such a hypocrite, because he still couldn't say it.

He may not have said it, but it was clear enough how that sentence ended, because Aziraphale felt the same way. Crowley was the fruit and the serpent and he wanted nothing more than to take a bite, the safety of the garden be damned. Eve had done it, and Adam had followed her because he loved her. Eve was willing to take the consequences for what she had done. Did she regret? "I'm not like you, Crowley," he whispered, voice thin and watery. "I can't just... let go. The worst has already happened to you."

That wasn't true. The worst would be losing Aziraphale. "Would it be so bad?" Crowley said bitterly. "To be like me?"  _ Do I disgust you so much? _

"It's not— being like you," he said, desperate to make Crowley understand. They had misunderstood each other so much. "I'm already more like you than I am like the rest of the angels. I— I can't Fall. If I Fall, it's—"  _ It means I'm wrong, it means I've always been a rotten excuse for an angel and there wasn't much reason for me to be one to begin with. _

"It's not the end of the world," said Crowley, voice shaking, "to have one night."  _ You're the best of them. If you Fall, they all do. Why can't you see that? _

One night? One night could be the end. Worse, it could  _ not  _ be the end and then— what? If the sun rose tomorrow and Aziraphale hadn't been pitched into Hell, would Crowley want to continue? Would he want things to change for good? Even if he didn't, would they be able to return to safety, keeping on the right sides of the line? Or might everything change? "You can't know that." Aziraphale looked at Crowley, looking small in that bed made for two to share, looking like he was overflowing with want, and he knew that that look was being reflected back.

"I know one thing," Crowley breathed.

Aziraphale frowned, eyebrows cinching together. "What's that?"

Crowley stood. He advanced on Aziraphale,  _ please don't pull back now, please, _ and watched the breath catch in his throat. "Aziraphale," Crowley said.  _ Angel. _ They were so close he could see the little flecks of color and fear in those eyes. He inhaled. The words wouldn't come. He'd never come this close, before, to saying it aloud. His chest heaved.

Aziraphale watched as Crowley crossed the room to him, came within an arm's reach, said his name like in prayer. His heart clenched. He looked up into his eyes, desperate and pleading and full of all the words neither of them could say. "Crowley," he breathed.

The micron of space between them was unbearable. Crowley, terrified, hopeful, reached for Aziraphale's hand. Aziraphale did not move. Crowley took the hand in both of his own, and oh, the feel of skin on skin was so tender and new, and he couldn't resist any longer. He brought Aziraphale's hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the knuckles in place of the words he didn't have. He fell to his knees and brought his forehead to rest against the hand he still held between his own.

Aziraphale froze as Crowley took his hand, his heart beating so loud and so high in his throat it felt like he could spit it out and give it to Crowley. The press of Crowley's lips to his knuckles, the phantom feeling of his tongue on his fingers, the forbidden perfection of his lips, his eyes, his fingers as they encased his own. As Crowley sunk to his knees before him (how often had a human done the same following a miracle?), Aziraphale stared at him, the forehead pressing into his skin. Aziraphale's knees gave out and he fell as well; with shaking, rushed hands he cupped Crowley's face, guided it upwards, and pressed their foreheads together.

Crowley's exhale was almost a sob. He kept his eyes closed; he couldn't bear to open them and find he'd only been imagining this. It  _ felt _ real, but it couldn't be. Aziraphale would never— They didn't— He had never thought to find himself in this position. He didn't know what to do now that he was in it. What could you do when the moon fell out of the sky and into your lap?

"I'm sorry," Aziraphale whimpered, thumb rubbing back and forth over Crowley’s hair.  _ I'm sorry I could never be what you wanted, what you deserved. I'm sorry I still can't find the words to say it. I'm sorry I'm still too slow and too scared. _ "I need you, Crowley, I do."

"Oh," gasped Crowley, like he'd just been run through with a lovesharp blade.  _ But who do you need more? _ "Then...?"

Aziraphale shook with a barely-contained sob. How many songs had been written about angels' tears? How much human mythology had been devoted to angelic grief or joy and how could they all be so inaccurate? An angel crying was not reverent, or holy. It just hurt. 

He pulled his forehead away to look at Crowley, as if seeing his face would make it easier to hurt him. He sucked in a breath and pressed a kiss to Crowley's lips, half open in the expectation of a response. He pulled away. "Tonight," he said, because a kiss had changed everything. Would Falling be so bad if he had Crowley by his side? If they could have each other without restrictions? "Tonight," he repeated, and continued, "After tonight... ask me again. In ten years. In twenty."

"Tonight," agreed Crowley, and lost himself in Aziraphale.

***

Aziraphale awoke very early in the morning. He hadn't meant to sleep, but at the time he couldn't bring himself to get up and risk disturbing Crowley, who had looked so perfect laying there. 

He still looked perfect, hair sleep-mussed, content and happy. How much it would surely hurt him to go back to how it was. If only he knew how much it would hurt Aziraphale as well.

Crowley opened his eyes, and it took a moment to process what he was seeing: Aziraphale. In front of him. Lying in bed with him. Watching him. "Ngh," said Crowley decisively, and buried his face in the pillow.

Aziraphale's whole body lit up at the sight of him, gorgeous and hiding. "What?" he asked through a half-smile. He touched the edges of his hair, brushing it aside and behind his ear.

"Morning," Crowley explained into the pillow. He didn't mean  _ Good morning. _ He didn't even mean  _ I'm not much for mornings in general. _ He meant  _ We said tonight, and that's over, and I don't know what you'll want from me now. _ But since he was, in fact, not much for mornings in general, he could articulate none of that.

"Yes, it does seem to be," said Aziraphale. He was all too aware of the finite nature of their agreement, how the sunlight coming through the window meant it was over. But as far as he was concerned, nothing had to change until they got out of bed, not while Crowley was still groggy and avoiding facing the morning. "Crowley, my dear, look at me, won't you?" Would he be able to stand calling him such a thing after last night? Had it been permanently coloured by the flush of Crowley's cheeks when Aziraphale flattered him, scented by the sulphurous smell of cinnamon on his hair? Could he call him dear without thinking of how he had sinned, and how much he wanted to sin again?

Crowley took as deep a breath as it was possible to take with his face muffled like this, braced for the worst, and turned his head. "Hello, angel," he said, trying to smile despite his pounding heart. He wanted to run his fingers through that thicket of curls again, now that he knew just how soft they were; he wanted to kiss the tender spot beneath Aziraphale's ear; he wanted to draw pleased noises and words out of Aziraphale until they both forgot this couldn't last. He didn't move.

Aziraphale looked into his eyes, eyes he had seen more of in the past twelve hours than he had since before sunglasses had been invented. He sighed and moved closer, wrapping his arms around Crowley. "I'm—" He stopped, bit his lip, and tried again. "I wish it didn't have to be this way." How else could Aziraphale communicate how hard this was, how he would hold the memories of this trip close to him for months, years. Perhaps after today distance would do them both good. No more social visits. Aziraphale didn't know if he could resist temptation, without work reminding him of what he was, what Crowley was.

He stiffened in Aziraphale's arms. "But it does," he said dully, resigned already to a return to the way things had been. Visiting museums and theatres and restaurants and calling it business. Never making contact except when deniable. Crowley could handle that. This, last night, it had been an unexpected gift. Being optimistic didn't make him an idiot; he knew this wasn't sustainable. Normalcy— stupid, painful normalcy— he could deal with it. He'd deal with it.

Aziraphale's heart folded over as Crowley tried to shirk away from him. Aziraphale wasn't familiar with human emotions, only really knew them from descriptions in books, but he understood this one well enough: his heart was breaking. "Crowley, I love you, I don't want to hurt you. And I don't want you to— to resign yourself. I don't want you feeling... one-sided, or unrequited." 

He could tell him that there would never be anything that would make him as happy as Crowley had, but he had already said too much. Everything was bleeding over now. The temptation to make it another day, to walk in a museum hand-in-hand like a couple, to lean together during the show and steal kisses in the dark, to share a bed just for another night— it was almost too strong, because what was the harm? This had been exactly what he had been afraid of when he agreed to this. But he couldn't stand knowing how much his presence, how much their duties, hurt Crowley. How long he had been hurting. He had seen so much of this demon that it felt almost like they were one and the same and it was agony to peel away.

"I have to go," said Crowley, pulling back, swiping one hand across his face as he sat up. "It's tomorrow, we said—"  _ We said all kinds of things, last night. I want to believe you meant them. It doesn't help if you did. _ He twisted his misery into a sort of smile. "Don't worry, I won't call."

Aziraphale sat up too, watching as Crowley pulled away while he couldn't do anything about it. "Please," he begged. "I know it's tomorrow and I know— I don't want this to have ruined things." How could it not? How could this new knowledge of each other not taint everything? "I don't want to go to the theatre by myself."  _ Please don't let this be the end. _ Maybe it would have been better to just deny Crowley last night, and avoid all of this.

"The usher will have your tickets," Crowley said, as if that was remotely the issue. "It's— We'll just— It'll be better if we act like this never happened." It was worse, now, to know what he didn't have and couldn't have and would never, ever be able to have. It was worse to look at Aziraphale and to have perfectly distinct memories of discovering what that skin felt like beneath his lips, finding what it was to have Aziraphale stroking his hair, learning the exact intonation of Aziraphale's breathing at night. It had been wonderful and now it was only agony. He'd do it again, of course he would, if given last night to do over again; that didn't mean he didn't regret it. Show a caged bird the sky and it will never sing in captivity again.

He couldn't forget this, any of it. But if they waited long enough, maybe it could retreat to the background, and he'd be able to see Aziraphale without seeing only that particular unguarded smile, or hearing the gentleness of the murmurs he'd fallen asleep to. If they waited long enough, he could pretend to move on.

Aziraphale watched Crowley for a moment, trying to find the words or the actions to make this all better. "Alright, Crowley," he whispered, defeated and bereft. He wanted to kiss him again, one last time, so the last few moments would be bittersweet, rather than rotten on his tongue. He wouldn't hurt Crowley like that, though. "But..." He couldn't leave this with such finality. He had to give something for them both to hold on to, and who cared if it was just going to string them both along? "Ask me again. Later. Another time."

Crowley wanted to ask what would make  _ another time _ any different, but he didn't want to see Aziraphale's face as he tried to come up with an answer. He nodded. "Sure, angel. Another time."

Aziraphale was silent for a moment, trying to keep his eyes from filling. "I'll... I'll find my own way back to London. Bye then."

He left before he could see Aziraphale cry.

* * *

[1] Certainly, my angel.

[2] Waiter! My companion is ready to give his order.

[3] “May I take your order?” / “Hello. He would love the banana crepes and a raspberry mimosa, and I'll have the oldest wine you serve.” / “I'm sorry, we don't serve wine.”

[4] “But you have mimosas?” / “Yes.” / “That means you have champagne.” / “Yes, sir.” / “Bring that out, then. Thanks and all that.”

[5] In Rome, do as the Romans.

[6] I could say anything like this. I could tell you everything.

[7] I know you know what I want to say. It's okay.

[8] “It should be cheaper, there are fewer ingredients.” / “It should be more expensive; it’s an additional problem.”

[9] Travelers of the world! I would cross the globe for you. 

[10] Kiss my ass!, Fuck off!, Bugger off!, etc.

[11] You're worth bragging about. 

[12] My dear. 

[13] I would come every day if you would let me. I would spend every moment in your company, if you didn't push me away.

[14] I wish I could stop being a fucking coward. That I could say these things in a way that you could hear.

[15] My German is fine.

[16] Welcome to Germany, my angel.

[17] “That's one hundred euros for the night, sir. Do you have luggage?” / “No, just us.” / “Room 241. Next!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Neither of us speak French, Dutch, or German; if you do and you spot an error in translation, please correct us!  
> The songs playing in the Bentley are Queen's "It's A Hard Life" and "Let Me In Your Heart Again," in that order.  
> Crowley mentions the Union parties' anonymous funding and is referring to Germany's [CDU donations scandal](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/CDU_donations_scandal). The Wallraf-Richartz museum did not discover [the forgery he talks about](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wallraf%E2%80%93Richartz_Museum#:~:text=painted%20in%201881.-,Monet%20forgery%20discovered,to%20an%20upcoming%20Impressionism%20exhibition.) until 2008, though it was acquired in 1954.


	7. No Lawful Impediment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In 2007, Crowley called up Aziraphale to inform him of the incoming Antichrist.  
> On 29 March 2014, the first same-gender wedding in England took place between Peter McGraith and David Cabreza.  
> CW for food and for mentions of religiously-motivated homophobia.

#  **2014: Islington**

It was crowded in Islington Town Hall tonight. Technically, it was nearly morning. The ceremony was set for just after midnight. Technicalities were a step up from loopholes when it came to obeying the law, Crowley had always found, and these people were ready and waiting. At the first opportunity.

His chest ached. They'd been waiting so long.

Aziraphale came in, dipping quickly through the crowd and spotting Crowley. He took a shallow breath. Despite the fact that they were meant to be working, which always kept them an acceptable distance apart, seeing Crowley outside the act, in his usual clothes with his usual voice, always reminded Aziraphale of things he didn't want to hear. Still, though, he approached. "Good evening," he greeted, looking out over the crowd and feeling a loving warmth fill him up. The place was reverberating with it.

Crowley swallowed and gave him the nod of a business acquaintance.

It wasn't that he hadn't expected Aziraphale to be here; they'd mentioned it, at the Dowlings. Both of them sent to the same place— it was strange enough to have to continue their sacred and infernal duties between playing at house; receiving the same assignment was... Crowley couldn't put words to the way it made him feel to see Aziraphale instead of Francis.

Instead of voicing any of that, he said, "Will you be blessing the couple?"  _ Will I be present for a holy miracle? Will this become a place of sanctity? I was lucky, this isn't a church, I can stand at your side as we hear these words. Don't make this a place I can't occupy. I want to stay. _ "I'll remind you I'm meant to be here every bit as much as you."

Aziraphale frowned up at him. "I don't know if they'll really want something like that," he said. "You know how much they've probably been hurt by people who claim to be from My Side." Did Crowley really think Aziraphale wouldn't want him here? That he bristled at the thought of standing beside Crowley? Had it not been only six years ago they had been drinking together in his shop? Were they not working together to prevent Armageddon? They weren't exactly  _ friendly _ at the Dowling estate, but he didn't like this cold wall Crowley had set up between them. He had been worried that that night in Germany would change things permanently, and not for the better. It looked like his fears had come true. 

"Naturally," said Crowley, "s'why I'm here. Surprised  _ you're _ here, frankly."

"Well." Aziraphale floundered, hands waving around to grasp at an explanation. "Despite what humans might think, Head Office doesn't really mind which humans love which humans, so long as it's consensual all around. So they view this as a type of victory." It had been all he could do to think up a suitable excuse to justify his presence here to Head Office, let alone to Crowley.

"So you've been sent to—"  _ spread love. _ Crowley bit his tongue. "To celebrate."

"That feels like an oversimplification. But I suppose you could say that. What are  _ you _ here for? Just to gloat over the 'defeat' of English Faith?"

He shrugged. "That's about the gist of it, yeah."

Aziraphale hummed flatly. "And no other reason." He stared ahead solidly. No reason at all that Crowley might want to witness the first same-gender wedding in England since before it had properly been "England."

"What other reason could I have?" said Crowley tightly. He looked at Aziraphale sideways, mindful of the glasses' protection.  _ You know how I feel. You know I can't say it. I'm only doing what you told me to. _ "Hm?"

He shook his head. "Never mind. It's not important." He didn't want to fight. The last thing he wanted to do was fight now.

Not important. Right. Okay. It didn't mean anything, these things going unsaid, the tension that only increased when they weren't pretending for Warlock's sake not to know each other. "They're starting," Crowley said, and fell silent.

Aziraphale contained a sigh, but said nothing as the ceremony began.

It was... beautiful. Crowley wasn't sure how he was going to describe this to Hell in his report. He couldn't mention the look in the eyes of Peter and David, or that no one there was making any kind of anti-Heaven speech. Or the way the whole room tasted of Angelic Joy. Aziraphale was getting carried away. It wasn't quite a blessing, nothing that would scorch Crowley, nothing to send him fleeing the scene. But he could feel it, tingling at the back of his throat, almost unpleasantly. He swallowed like it could clear his mouth of the sensation, and continued to bear wordless witness.

Aziraphale cried at least twice during the ceremony. He couldn't help it. Humans were so full of love, were so capable of greatness. He nearly envied these two men. They had been waiting for so long, but now they were free— Aziraphale wondered how long it would be until he, too, could be free. 

As it ended, he stood and started towards the door, still wiping at his face.

Crowley hesitated, and then fell into line beside him. "Ride back?" he offered. "Going the same way, y'know."

Aziraphale sniffed. "I suppose so," he said, letting out a shaky breath. The offer of a ride was olive branch enough. He tried to feel relieved for it.

The Bentley was parked a block or two away. Crowley led Aziraphale toward it, but paused when he noticed Aziraphale eyeing a shopfront.

"Would you like some ice cream, my dear?" he asked, smiling angelically at him. "It's been quite a while since we spent any time together outside of the Dowling estate."

Ice cream shops generally weren't open at one in the morning, but Crowley had a feeling Aziraphale wouldn't have considered that. They drew closer and yes, the sign said OPEN, and there was a rather befuddled employee behind the counter. Crowley threw open the door.

Aziraphale followed him in, beaming and twiddling his fingers against his chest. He went up to the counter and looked at all the flavors, pondering. "Do you want anything, dear?" he asked.

For a moment, Crowley allowed himself to toy with the idea of sharing a milkshake. Two straws in one drink. Leaning in close, maybe even holding eye contact. He shook his head. "I'm not really hungry."

"One doesn't eat ice cream when one is hungry," Aziraphale chided. He ordered an ice cream cone and stood to the side.

"Far be it from me, et cetera," said Crowley, "but wouldn't that be the textbook definition of gluttony?"

Aziraphale looked at him sideways. "It just doesn't have much in the way of nutritional value," he said. He took his cone and sat down at one of the small booths across the wall of the shop.

Crowley slithered into the opposite seat. "Perfectly alright, then."

He smiled. "Seeing as the other angels don't really understand why I eat in the first place, I doubt it would occur to them to ascribe gluttony to me. At least… not for eating ice cream."

Crowley spared a glance at the Udderlicious employee, who was clearly trying not to appear as though he was listening to the conversation. "What're  _ you _ looking at?" Crowley snapped. He supposed they must look pretty strange: a tearstained bookseller and someone in sunglasses at this time of night. Still. Bloody rude.

Aziraphale, who had been too absorbed in his own feelings and in the relief of being able to spend casual time with Crowley — as well as the ice cream, of course — had not noticed. He looked up at the employee as he shuffled shamefully around looking for something to do. "Don't be mean," he scolded.

"That's the job description," said Crowley. The job description in question, inasmuch as it was ever written out rather than carved into his essence, actually said something more along the lines of  _ cruelty _ and  _ evil _ than  _ yelling at retail workers up past their bedtime, _ but he was pretty confident it would qualify.

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes at him. "He didn't do anything to you."

"I'm not a child, Aziraphale, you don't have to teach me about fairness," said Crowley. "You forget we're not— at work, at the moment."

Aziraphale cocked an eyebrow. "Alright then, whatever you say." He refocused on his ice cream cone, licking in circles to keep the ice cream a smooth mound sticking out of the cone.

Crowley wished he wouldn't. That he would let sweet liquid dribble down over his fingers. Hold them out to him. Crowley's mouth was so dry.  _ Whatever you say. _ He'd said that in Calais, too. "Je me souviens de ta langue," he said, conversationally. "Tu te souviens de la mienne1?"

Aziraphale gave him a pained look. "Really, Crowley?" he said quietly, not even caring about what he said, because it always made Aziraphale feel soft inside and he was afraid of that now.

Crowley's jaw clenched. "Sorry."

He chewed on his lip for a long moment. "It's alright. I just... " He swallowed. "It makes me think about— about that night." It had been eighteen years and he still couldn't get the taste of Crowley's skin out of his mind. No matter how well they pretended it had never happened, how well they hid their want, even from one another, Aziraphale could see that Crowley couldn't forget either; it was present in every look, every smile— rare, nowadays— and Aziraphale knew his own was just as poorly-concealed.  _ It makes me think about how much I miss you. You're right here and it feels like you're thousands of miles away. In another galaxy, amongst the stars you love so much. _

"Je pense toujours à cette nuit2," Crowley whispered, and it couldn't be a confession if Aziraphale didn't know what was said, could it?

Aziraphale winced. He wanted to put his face in his hands, but the ice cream cone prevented him. French was the language of Crowley's heart, meanings locked away like his eyes. All Aziraphale could think about were lines of French said over crêpes; incomprehensible, desperate sweet nothings whispered in a dark hotel room; the words Aziraphale imagined over and over again like he might derive their meaning from the repetition. 

Years in close proximity, no matter the fact that it was only professional in nature, had made it all but impossible for Aziraphale to file his want away where it couldn't hurt him, and here Crowley was dredging it back out into the open.

Crowley flexed his fingers, aching for the touch of skin. He stroked his neck like he could erase the phantom of Aziraphale's lips. "Your cone's getting messy," he said, and had to look away from Aziraphale and his need. "We should be getting back soon anyhow. You know how Tad likes to be up early."

He took a sharp breath and let it out in a noise somewhere between sigh and sob. "Yes," he murmured. "I ought to get started on the watering." He stood up, tossing the cone into the trash and wiping his fingers with the napkin. Crowley had brought these feelings out into the air and let them hang there. Hang there like Constantinople. Hang there like the day the shop opened. Hang there like the road trip to Germany. Aziraphale wanted to resent him for it, but couldn't.

It was, Crowley told himself, patently absurd to be envious of a napkin.

Aziraphale dared a glance at Crowley from the periphery of his vision as they walked back to the Bentley. He told himself that there wasn't any use thinking about him-and-Crowley, about any sort of  _ us. _ They had practiced a professional distance for thousands of years, and would have to for thousands more, no matter how much he wished for the safety and careless freedom of that hotel in Germany, that hostel in Constantinople, moments of privacy where they didn't have to pretend.

Crowley started the car, considered turning on the radio, and decided against it. There was never anything decent on at this hour. And if he was concerned that the songs would twist into something else, well, who could blame him? He'd done his job for tonight. He had time, really, to get back and catch some more sleep before Warlock would be up and asking questions. He didn't need Hell giving him more work. It had nothing to do with the company he was keeping.

Aziraphale tugged at a loose thread hanging off his cuff, too sad to miracle it away. He wanted to talk but he had no idea what about, and Crowley had made it clear enough  _ he _ didn't want to talk. It seemed they never talked of anything of substance besides the impending apocalypse. It was always about Warlock or how Aziraphale wasn't giving the roses enough attention, or about the nice little restaurant that they kept meaning to go to but never did. Social visits were more common than ever and he knew he should be happy to have an excuse to see Crowley more often, but every interaction felt empty.

_ Only a few years left. _ Crowley pressed the accelerator harder. "How's he taking to your instructions?" Staying within the designated areas. He was a reckless driver, but careful in conversation. Some things mattered more than others.

"Well enough, for a six-year-old," Aziraphale said. "I worry for him sometimes. I know the whole reason Mr. and Mrs. Dowling were chosen to bring him up was because of the environment and how it would create The Adversary to end the world, but— Well. It's just not a particularly pleasant environment for a young boy."

"Not just any young boy," said Crowley, ignoring the squirming unpleasantness of agreement. "No need to worry about him.  _ He'll _ be fine. Stand on the ashes of us all some day."

"Not if we have anything to say about it," he said. "But if we succeed that won't be enough to undo all the therapy he's bound to need someday."

It was hard to feel guilty about potentially ruining one childhood in the face of the literal Earth, but Crowley supposed Aziraphale had a point. "D'you think human therapists are equipped to handle Satan spawn?"

"Almost certainly not," Aziraphale said on a sigh. "Perhaps we could... well."

"That's what we're  _ doing. _ Shaping his mind," said Crowley, conveniently leaving out the bit about turning him toward evil and good simultaneously, which was probably not the best thing for a developing psyche. Even one with a decided bent toward the former. "Best thing for it really."

"I suppose you're right." Aziraphale went back to tugging on the loose string. "I feel guilty enough, but I suppose it  _ is _ for the sake of the rest of the world."

"Absolutely." Crowley glanced at him.  _ I'll handle it. It's all on my head, I swear. _ How many times, how many ways had he told Aziraphale over the years?  _ Let me worry for you. _

Aziraphale felt the glance but didn't acknowledge it. How many times did Crowley look at him out of the corner of his eye, obscured by glasses? At least as often as Aziraphale did, if not more. "Crowley... what if. What if it doesn't work?"

Crowley bared his teeth in a grin. "Think positive, angel. If it doesn't, we'll only know we failed for a very short while."

Aziraphale gave him a panicked look. "That's not—  _ positive _ at all!" he exclaimed. The thought of all this effort being for nothing— that Aziraphale might end up having to fight against Crowley, hurt him even, was nearly too much to cope with in such an enclosed space.

A shrug. "Better not fail, then."

That certainly didn't make Aziraphale feel better, but he doubted any pressing of the conversation would really help either. He stared out the window as they drove.

The rumble of asphalt was the only sound, besides Crowley's heart.  _ Stop that, _ he told himself. No reason for it to be pounding like that. Or at all. Some days he could swear he didn't have one, empty-chested and miraculous; other times he knew he had one, buried deep inside, because if he was hollow, what was it that hurt? He liked keeping his body mostly-human, though, internal organs doing their jobs with minimal fuss. It was only his heart that gave him grief about it.

Aziraphale glanced at him through the thick silence, squeezing like a snake wrapped around them. He almost wished for an argument, at least to relieve the pressure. It was easier to argue than it was to think about their friendship. How limited it was.

In the stillness of the Bentley, Crowley's thoughts turned back to the ceremony.  _ I do. _ Funny how such small words could make all the difference. Humans set such store in legality. He felt Aziraphale's eyes on him.  _ Would you, if we weren't what we are? No lawful impediment, they said. Whose laws are we bound by? _ Crowley clenched his hands around the steering wheel. "Only a few years more," he said, and it was almost a continuation of the conversation they'd been having aloud instead of the one he'd been having with himself.

"And then what?" Aziraphale asked, meaning so many things. He decided to continue on only one. "If we do... avert the apocalypse. What happens then?"

Crowley couldn't breathe. "Nothing happens," he said tightly. "That's the whole point. Life goes on, same as always."

_ Same as always. _ An endless dance, toeing the company line, always wanting and never getting. A no-score draw. Aziraphale couldn't find words so he only hummed in response.

And it was such a familiar sound, such an  _ Aziraphale _ sound, one of his many small noises Crowley had committed to memory. His chest ached. "We're here," he muttered, and stopped the car.

Aziraphale got out of the car and looked over at Crowley. "I suppose things staying the same is better than the alternative," he tried.

Crowley knew they were talking about Armageddon. It still stung. They'd tried another alternative, once, and things hadn't changed after it. They had both been very careful about that. "Right."

Aziraphale touched the top of the Bentley, watching Crowley. He started to speak, unsure where the sentence would start let alone where it would end, before giving up and saying instead, "I'll let you go in. Thank you... for the ride."

"Anytime." If it was a little too gentle, a little softer than allowable, well... There was a child sleeping in the house. "G'night, angel."

* * *

[1] I remember your tongue. Do you remember mine?

[2] I'm always thinking about that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [NYC_Utopia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NYC_Utopia/pseuds/NYC_Utopia) for correcting the grammar of this chapter's French!


	8. Switching Horses Mid-Race

#  **Present day: Saturday night**

As Crowley unlocked the door to his flat the night after Satan's defeat, Aziraphale stood a good distance away, looking up and down the corridor. He followed Crowley inside, his hands folded in front of him. He nearly shivered, though there was no noticeable change in temperature. The place was just so  _ empty. _ Empty and gray and sad. Crowley lived here? 

"It's very minimalist," was all he said.

_ Hell's crowded. _ "It's fashionable."

He almost smiled. "Yes, I'm sure it is." He looked around the room. It looked unlived-in. Like a room at a wax museum. "Should we... talk about..." Aziraphale waved his hand. "Everything?"

Everything:  _ You're being ridiculous _ and  _ I don't even like you _ and all. "I see you were very keen on the whole pretend-it-never-happened bit," Crowley muttered. If the world coming to an end hadn't been enough to get Aziraphale to agree to run off with him, it was hopeless.

Aziraphale turned on him, frowning incredulously. "Excuse me?"

"First sign of trouble and it was back to the party line, wasn't it?" Crowley snapped. "Never mind what you told me before, it was all a mistake, a misunderstanding, right? 'We're not friends.' 'There is no our side.' You've made yourself very clear, angel. What I don't know is  _ why." _

"Because I was being  _ watched! _ We were both being watched! We're still being watched and our Head Offices are probably trying to figure out how to get a hold of us so they can execute us!" Aziraphale’s eyes filled, the terror and exhaustion and grief of the past week all spilling over. He collapsed into a hard chair nearby, glowering at the floor with his face in his hands. "Because— because pushing you away was easier than coming to terms with the fact that I might have to—" His voice cracked and he could only finish in a whisper:  _ "Hurt you." _

Crowley didn't know which he wanted to do more: Say  _ But you did, _ or dry Aziraphale's tears. No, that wasn't true; he knew exactly which he wanted more. He longed to take Aziraphale's face in his hands and make everything alright. But he was right, they were being watched, they still weren't safe. The world was, but not them. "We can talk about it later, then," he said, "when we don't have to worry about that." It wasn't an apology or acceptance of one, but it was a ceasefire. A no-man's-land for negotiation. Almost a side of their own.

Aziraphale sniffed sharply and wiped at his eyes. "Yes," he agreed. Their focus should be on  _ surviving  _ the next twenty-four hours. Anything after that would come. "But... in case we don't make it." He looked up at him. Would an admission now change what Head Office would do? "I wanted to go with you. To Alpha Centauri."

Crowley's throat worked. "I—" He hesitated.  _ I know. I hoped. I forgive you. I'm sorry. _ "I didn't want to go, really. Just... didn't know what else to do." He waved an arm through the air. "World ending, a demon panics, y'know? Would've gone if you'd said yes, though."

"Well, I suppose it's good that we didn't go." Aziraphale twisted his ring around his finger. But now they had to figure out how to save their own skins, how to interpret Agnes' prophecy.

"Mm. All worked out for the Earth after all." Crowley laughed, startling himself. "Be a pain to get all the way there and then have to pack it all in again."

Aziraphale chuckled, mostly because Crowley had laughed rather than actually feeling like it. "Yes, I suppose."

"So." Crowley ran a hand through his hair. "Tips on surviving the next few days?"

"I think what we need to do is figure out what Agnes is trying to tell us." Aziraphale reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled the rumpled piece of paper out.

"Choo∫e your faces wiseley, for soon enouff ye will be playing with Fyre," Crowley read. "Well, at least the  _ playing with fire _ bit is simple enough to understand." Crowley had had enough of fire in the past week, between the bookshop and the M25; he wasn't looking forward to adding divine retribution to the list.

"Simple for you, maybe," Aziraphale said, frowning. "What does it mean?"

Crowley made a face. "Well. You know what holy water does to demons."

Aziraphale paled. "You mean hellfire?" he asked, voice raising an octave. "But this is talking to the both of us, isn't it?"

"S'your paper scrap," Crowley reminded him, but something about it felt off. "Sort of a pity it  _ isn't  _ talking to me, though."

"What do you mean?" Aziraphale looked down at the scrap of singed paper in his hands.

"Well— demon. Not gonna have much of an effect on me, is it, if they come after  _ me _ with the hellfire."

"Well they wouldn't," Aziraphale pointed out. "They'd use holy water on you." He frowned. "'Faces.' That means she's talking to both of us. I'm sure both our Head Offices will be looking for us. Gabriel and Beelzebub both saw us at the base."

"So to sum up," said Crowley glumly, "Heaven's coming for you with hellfire and Hell's coming for me with holy water. Wonderful. Just what this week needed."

"If only there was a way we could... I don't know. If I could go to Hell, because the holy water wouldn't do anything to me."

Crowley stared. "Aziraphale, you're a genius," he said hoarsely.

"What? What did I say?"

"You can go to Hell!" said Crowley, and laughed at the way that would have sounded in any other context, and laughed at the giddiness of having a plan.  _ "Choose your faces! _ You go down and I go up and nobody knows better!"

Aziraphale gave him a doubtful look. "I don't know if you've noticed, Crowley, but we look very distinct from one another."

"You look pretty different from that Tracy woman," Crowley pointed out. "You—  _ we _ aren't our bodies. Just taking up space in them. Driving them around."

Realization dawned on Aziraphale’s face. "Wait. You mean." He stood up and started across the room. "Switching our corporeal forms?"

"Can't believe it either," Crowley admitted. "I hardly let you into my car."

"Would we even... be able to do that? Occupying a human's body alongside them is one thing, but... we're an angel and a demon."

Crowley considered this. "Maybe if we time it exactly right?" He didn't fancy finding out if they really would explode.

"Alright, that seems. Very risky. How would you propose we did that?"

"You're the one with experience in possession, you tell me."

"Well, I can't exactly step into you," Aziraphale retorted. "It's different precisely because we're just riding along."

"If we... stepped into each other at the same time?" Crowley said, shrugging. "Like. Switching horses mid-race. Out one and in the other."

"It would have to be very precise," said Aziraphale. "But, alright. We can try. And pray— hope we don't explode." He started stepping the rest of the way across the space.

They'd held hands on the bus, but this was different. This close to Aziraphale, Crowley couldn't help but think of the last time they'd spoken before he'd handed W— Adam over to a bunch of idiotic nuns. This close to Aziraphale, Crowley's heart pounded. He held out a hand. "Would, uh. Would touching help, d'you reckon?" He cleared his throat. "To make less distance to travel."  _ I know what it's like to touch you. You know how much I want to touch you. Will you let me, now? Twenty years, you said. But you've said a lot of things since then. _

"Yes, I would imagine it would," Aziraphale said, looking down at the offered hand. After a moment of hesitation he took a hold of Crowley's hand, knowing how much it meant. He squeezed it gently, once. Just to reassure him. "Right. On three then?"

"On three," Crowley whispered, throat dry.

"One. Two. Three." Aziraphale shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and extracted himself from the corporeal form. He traveled along his arm to his fingertips, bleeding into Crowley and passing the sense of evil on his way.

Crowley grazed past Aziraphale's presence. They weren't just travelling consciousnesses, in this moment; it was their  _ essence, _ their everything, and he could feel the deep and pervading Goodness of Aziraphale for that split second, before he emerged in the other body. Crowley took a moment to get settled in, adjusting to this new corporation and its unfamiliar cohesion to the laws of physics and anatomy. He blinked (this body seemed to want to do that a lot more) and looked at his own face. "It worked, then," he said unnecessarily.

Aziraphale opened and closed his mouth, frowning at the dark tint over everything. "Yes," he said. He shook an arm. "I feel so spindly."

"Everything's... colorful." Crowley squinted. "And bright. How can you see all this all the time?"

"I never really noticed," Aziraphale said. He took his sunglasses off and squinted around. "This is… new." He looked down at Crowley, feeling less like he was looking in a mirror and more like he was looking at Crowley wearing a very convincing Aziraphale mask. "The lack of colors is odd, though." He found himself smiling and his face felt much too wide. "I can't believe that worked."

Crowley meant to reply, but was distracted. "S'that really what my hair looks like from the back?" he said, circling Aziraphale.

He frowned and started turning in place as Crowley walked around him, but suddenly stopped as he realized what he was doing. "Haven't you ever tried the trick with a pair of mirrors?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Course I have, s'not the same. Look for yourself."

He scoffed, but did glance briefly at the back of his own head. "Yes, well, that's the hard part done, I suppose. But if we're really going to convince our respective Head Offices of this little switcheroo, we'll have to learn to impersonate one another."

"Easier for me than you," said Crowley, to bait Aziraphale into asking why.

He raised his eyebrows at him. "Why would you say that?" he asked.

"You... How do I put this... Hm. Being you's just forgetting the past half century of style;  _ you've _ got to  _ learn _ how to be cool."

"Oh, is that so," Aziraphale said. He crossed his arms and leaned impossibly far back on his hips in a sarcastic imitation of Crowley. "If I learned how to be cool they'd know I was an imposter immediately."

Crowley's jaw dropped. "You— that's— I—! Unbelievable, angel." He folded his arms. "Oh my dear chap! We must get a wiggle on posthaste!"

Aziraphale tossed on the sunglasses and ran a hand through his hair. He turned and waved a hand lazily around. He started across the living room. "Yeah, yeah, make yourself at home in my depressingly empty flat with the black and white décor and the—" He stopped abruptly at the sight of the anatomically fascinating statue sitting at the end of the hall. He turned to face Crowley. "What the bloody hell is that?" he asked, more amused than vexed.

Apparently, Aziraphale's corporation was prone to blushing. Crowley had noted this before, but it was terribly inconvenient now. He stammered. "Um. Nothing. A statue. It's just a bit of art, to, to liven the place up somewhat. It's symbolic," he added desperately.

"Symbolic," Aziraphale repeated slowly, lavishing in the way Crowley's voice made every syllable its own word. "And what, exactly, is it symbolic of?" He started smiling, grinning, almost, in a way that would have been absolutely alien on Aziraphale's own face.

Crowley drew a little circle in the air with his hand. "Y'know. Struggle between good an' evil. Evil triumphing. It's very... portentous."

"Oh yes," said Aziraphale. "I'm sure. Tell me, Crowley, how long have you had that statue?" Symbolism, portentousness? More like fantasizing and overcompensation.

"Is that really what we should be focusing on right now?" Crowley demanded. "Hm? Forces of Heaven and Hell banging on the door and you want to talk sculpture."

Perhaps it was the liquid nature of Crowley's corporation, the way his voice made everything sound cooler than it was. Perhaps it was the relief from Earth being saved, or the terror of what tomorrow would bring. But Aziraphale felt wild and free and impish. "I was only wondering if you'd gotten it before or after 1996," he said. "But alright, we won't talk about it if you don't want to, dear boy."

"Bit longer'n that, yeah," said Crowley quietly.  _ I've wanted you as long as I've wanted anything. It's only ever been you, for me. _ "Aziraphale?" The name felt weird in this mouth, unused to speaking itself aloud.

His little grin dropped suddenly at the change of tone. "Yes, Crowley?" He watched him from across this harsh, bare expanse. It was dark, it was the middle of the night and there was only one light on, and yet he still kept the glasses on. He was beginning to understand why Crowley wore them.

"This is it, isn't it."

"It?" He held his breath. His fingers touched one another, searching for the ring he usually wore. He found nothing and forced his fists to his sides.

"The end of things. One way or another."

Aziraphale swallowed, looking around Crowley's flat. "Yes, I suppose." Everything would be different, if they survived. If they didn't, well, he supposed he wouldn't have to worry about it.

"Right." Crowley bit his lip. Or— Aziraphale's lip, technically. Strange to feel them from the inside out when he'd had one night of getting to know them in the usual way.  _ Ask me again. _ The world had ended. They might die tomorrow.  _ Ask me. _ He couldn't.

"We should— if we're not going to practice impersonating one another, we should... probably change back." Being inside Crowley's corporation was new, and strange, and terrifying. Aziraphale knew there were countless sayings about other men's shoes, understanding people by inhabiting their skin, et cetera, but this was... something else. Something metaphysical. Holy — or, unholy. Depending. He was trying not to think in those terms anymore. But standing here in Crowley's clothes looking through Crowley's eyes and his glasses, seeing Crowley looking so defeated and scared even still, after everything— they had faced  _ Satan himself  _ that day and survived! And yes, they weren't out of the woods yet, but surely there wasn't much to be afraid of anymore. Except there was and he knew it. Being in Crowley's skin felt like an invasion of privacy, just like seeing the flat, just like encouraging him to eat had been, nearly five hundred years ago.

"Yeah," said Crowley, "sure, alright, yeah. Make sure we can do it."

Aziraphale wet his lips, his tongue feeling too long and reminding him of the familiarity he had had with it, once upon a time. "I— er. Do you think we would be able to be convincing?"

"Find out soon enough," Crowley said, and the thought wasn't as terrifying as it should have been, not with Aziraphale beside him wearing his face. "I don't think anyone's ever known someone the way we know each other, honestly." Thousands of years together, in various states of proximity. There was no use worrying about how well-acquainted they were.

"I suppose you're right," he said. Aziraphale crossed the room and offered his hand. One last olive branch. The signal that there was dry land somewhere nearby. Safety. A new beginning. A place outside the Garden, no Apples and no Punishment. All they had to do was get there.

Crowley took it. "On three again," and then they were back in their usual forms, like coming home after a long day at work to slide beneath the covers.

He stretched. Flexed his fingers, kicked his feet, shook his head. "Mm. So." He eyed Aziraphale. Last night of their lives, maybe, or the last before the first day. He had to ask. How could he ask?

Aziraphale opened his eyes, blinking a few times. Like being back at the bookshop after a long trip abroad. He looked up at Crowley as he spoke. "Yes?" he asked, far too aware of their proximity. He did not move.

"You said— If we don't make it—" Crowley clenched his hands into fists at his sides to stop himself from taking hold of Aziraphale's face in them, from settling them around Aziraphale's waist to draw him in, from crossing the lines in the sand Crowley couldn't seem to find anymore. "Angel."  _ You told me to ask. I'm trying to ask. _ "Aziraphale, I..."

Deliberately, heart pounding, Aziraphale took Crowley's hand in both of his, and lifted it to his lips. His eyes drifted shut as he pressed a kiss into the knuckles that had been his moments ago. "I know, Crowley."

And so Crowley fell forward and held Aziraphale like he wanted to, face buried in beige-suited shoulder, trying not to cry and crying anyway and trying not to be obvious about it.  _ I don't want to die, _ he thought, and  _ I want time to say everything, _ and  _ Aziraphale. _ "Good," he said, muffled.

Aziraphale let out a choked half-laugh as Crowley crashed into him, collapsed like into him like he was a life preserver. He wrapped his arms tightly around Crowley as the urge to cry overpowered Aziraphale as well. He wanted to say it. After all this time, Crowley deserved to hear the words again, in a moment of clarity and decisiveness, not in the desperate fulfillment of a promise. It still felt like it was too soon. But if they didn't survive, Crowley would die not knowing. "I love you too. I was never very good at showing it. I'm sorry."

"Don't let's waste time with  _ sorry  _ now," said Crowley. "If— if we make it through tomorrow— we can work through it all then. We can apologize until we're blue in the face, angel, I'd rather... I don't want this to be about the past, right now."

Repentance was Aziraphale's basic setting. But after years of forcing Crowley to meet him, to bend to his needs, he could forego apologies, even though he had never been in the habit of apologizing to Crowley. "Alright, my dear. Alright."

Crowley turned his head and pressed a kiss to Aziraphale's neck; he slipped a finger between collar and skin to pull the fabric out of his way to continue, downward, until he reached the junction of neck and shoulder, because he remembered how it made Aziraphale shiver. He'd spent most of the last twenty-odd years wondering if he would ever get to see that again, ever again pull reactions like that out of his beautiful angel. "Je t'aime plus que je n'ai jamais su te dire," he murmured, "mais je vais essayer1."

Aziraphale's eyes flitted shut. He tipped his head to one side. His chest heaved to avoid sighing in a way that was distinctly unangelic. "I understood a few of those words," he said distantly.

Yes, he'd expected Aziraphale to recognize at least one of them. "Tellement," Crowley promised. "Toujours. S'il te plaît, ne meurs pas2. Fuck, Aziraphale, I don't want tonight to end." 

He pulled away and cupped Crowley's face in his hand. "'Do not go gently into that good night,'" said Aziraphale, "'Rage, rage against the dying of the light.'" He leaned in and kissed him, his fear dissolving. They had a plan. Agnes Nutter had predicted their success. This time tomorrow, hopefully, they would be free. "Let me make you some tea."

Tea. Yes, they would have tea, and they would have tonight, and then tomorrow would come. There was nothing guaranteed to them but this moment. Crowley laced his fingers between Aziraphale's. "My flat, Aziraphale. I'll make the tea."

#  **Present day: Sunday evening**

"Well. I'll see myself out, then, shall I?" He smiled as he stepped out of the flames. "And we won't have any more trouble about this."

Nobody argued.

It had been very deeply satisfying, Crowley thought, to see the smug security of Heaven brought low. He focused on thinking of that on his way back. There was nothing else safe to think about. Not yet.  _ (What if...?) _

The bench was empty. He sat, and waited, and thought of nothing.  _ (What if—?) _

He had been taken first. That's why he was first to return. And there'd been so little talking, and Beelzebub did like to grandstand. It didn't mean anything. His leg bounced. He looked around again.  _ (What if!) _

Minutes passed. People came by; birds dared to come within a meter of Crowley and the bench. 

Finally, scuttling around people and quickly down the path, appeared Aziraphale. 

He had managed to impress himself with his performance before the Unholy Hordes of Hell, and especially at how he had managed to keep his cool in the face of Michael. The whole time, however, his mind had been occupied only with Crowley's safety. Despite his certainty that they had correctly interpreted Agnes' prophecy, he was still worried it had all gone wrong. Heaven may not be especially predictable, but they could be  _ creative. _

So naturally, when Aziraphale spotted himself lounged on the bench, leg bouncing wildly, he nearly broke into a run. He could have laughed for joy, or thanked God— but of course, they weren't on very good terms at the moment. "Crowley!" he called as he approached. He was there. He was  _ safe. _

All the air in Crowley's borrowed lungs left him. "Oh," he said, because that was all he  _ could  _ say. What else could you say when all your worst fears were untrue? He didn't trust himself to stand. He had to hope Aziraphale could read the look on his own face and recognize it from the outside in. He watched Aziraphale manipulate unfamiliarly-long legs towards him, and he bit back a sob. It had worked. It was all over, the terror and the uncertainty and the waiting of the past few moments. They had done it.

Aziraphale's eyes filled and tipped over. He tore the sunglasses off as he reached the bench, ridiculously long legs giving out. He fell into Crowley, choking on a sob that sounded vaguely like the demon's name, a name he would never have to feel ashamed for whispering, saying, weeping, ever again. He wrapped his arms around Crowley, just pressing against him and feeling him, real and perfect and  _ his. _

It was Crowley's turn to be crashed into. Hesitantly, he lifted his arms; carefully, he closed them around Aziraphale. His fists closed on black fabric. His eyes closed. "It's okay," he murmured.  _ They can't hurt you anymore. They're never going to scare you again. _ "You're okay."

_ "Me?!" _ he demanded, pulling away just enough to look Crowley in the face. "I was worried about  _ you!" _ He took a deep breath, aware of the humans around who might be wondering at the two teary gentlemen cuddling on a park bench as though they had nearly died. Oh, if they only knew. "I was sure that they— well—" He stopped, heaving another breath. Crowley's corporation was so skinny it almost felt like he couldn't get a lungful of air. "We don't have to worry about it now."

"I thought—" Crowley didn't say what he'd thought. "And I couldn't..." He wasn't sure what the rest of the sentence was going to be.  _ Couldn't be sure you were safe. Couldn't bear to think otherwise. Couldn't go on if I were the only one. _ He let it hover between them unfinished.

Aziraphale hushed him. "I know. But I'm here now. And we won. We won, my dear." He pressed a kiss to his cheek and then cleared his throat. They would have plenty of time, the rest of their lives, really. No need to get ahead of themselves, or go too fast. He looked around the bench for the sunglasses he had cast off, and slipped them back on. Undoubtedly Crowley would want to be wearing them when they switched back.

Crowley felt a twinge deep within him as he watched the glasses come into place. So this was what it was like to be on the other side of them. To be shut out. He shifted on the bench into some semblance of his usual sprawling posture, or as near as this body was capable of. It was almost funny, really, to see himself sitting in Aziraphale's prim and proper pose. "Do you think they'll leave us alone, now?"

Aziraphale straightened, all too glad to leave the moment— and the terror it had dissolved— behind. He took a brief, sharp breath. "At a guess," he said, "they'll pretend it never happened." He paused, looking at Crowley, sprawled out in his body. Even through the corporation, he could see the being he loved; he would always be there, underneath. "Right. Is anyone looking?"

Fingers to temples, eyes closed: Crowley paused the scene around them so he could be sure, but he couldn't sense any unwanted attention directed their way. "Nobody," he said at last, and what a relief the word was. Nobody was watching them. What bliss in the unexamined life. He glanced at Aziraphale, was rebuffed by the sunglasses, and looked away. He held out a hand. "Right. Swap back?"

Aziraphale took his hand, for the first time in their new lives together, and melted back into himself.

* * *

[1] I love you more than I ever knew how to say, but I'm going to try. 

[2] So much. Always. Please don't die. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The statue in question, of course, is [this one](https://neil-gaiman.tumblr.com/post/170898533526/the-statue-in-crowleys-flat-it-represents). Aziraphale quotes a Dylan Thomas poem.


	9. Tell Me How It Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, the final chapter! It's been a wild and crazy ride and we want to thank those of you who have come along for it.  
> We also want to thank AO3 user [cassieoh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassieoh/pseuds/cassieoh) for her help with the Akkadian in this chapter!  
> CW for food and alcohol.  
> Now with art thanks to the incredible Issa [@blackcatarts](https://blackcatarts.tumblr.com/post/641393954544402432/for-jlmarch-for-writing-something-entirely) on tumblr!  
> 

#  **Sometime later: the South Downs**

Aziraphale putted through the warm kitchen, the smell of bread and roasting mushrooms in the air. "Excuse me, dearest," he said, hands on Crowley's hips as he passed behind him. The kitchen was cramped in a cozy sort of way, an excuse to touch Crowley as often as he liked when they cooked together. He pulled the bread from the oven and set it down on a rack to cool. 

On his way back, he opened the window to let the recent-rain air in.

"Cheeky," said Crowley, abandoning his pan for the moment to steal a kiss. "Do me a solid and fetch the wine? Only needs a bit."

"Only if you promise never to ask me for a 'solid' the rest of your days," Aziraphale replied, smiling against Crowley's lips. He pulled the wine from its place between two sipped-at glasses and handed it over to him. "I'll set the table, since you seem to have a handle on the pasta."

Aziraphale pulled out a set of plates and assorted cutlery, laying them out on the table and then going back to the kitchen. He Encouraged the bread out of the tin and cut a few slices off of it, placing them in a bowl and wrapping them in a towel to keep them perfectly warm and soft.

"Mhm... Couple minutes more. Any chance I could ask for the garlic?" Crowley gave the mushroom pan a shake, stirred the pasta pot, and turned to Aziraphale. He supposed he should have gotten his ingredients out earlier, but there was no motivation to do that, not when it gave him the chance to make requests of Aziraphale that would be promptly filled. He could ask for anything. All he needed was the garlic.

Aziraphale drew the small bag of garlic from the vegetable drawer in the refrigerator. He quickly minced them, and then brought them over to the pan, letting them free into the sizzling amalgam. He brushed Crowley's hair aside and pressed a kiss to the warm, soft expanse underneath his ear.

Crowley hissed in pleasure. "Love when you do that," he said, "but you'll have to eat burnt mushrooms if you distract me now."

Aziraphale hummed, squeezed Crowley’s shoulders in a brief, awkward hug, and then moved away to set the wine glasses on the table. "Wouldn't it be a shame if you had to tell the mushrooms to rethink their chemical change," he said. He leaned on the table, the other hand on his hip, waiting for an opportunity to "distract" Crowley that  _ wouldn't _ result in a ruined dinner. Kissing in the kitchen for a few minutes wasn't too far out of the way, in Aziraphale's opinion; given the horrifically long time they had had to wait for any kisses at all, though, he supposed it wasn't  _ much  _ of an inconvenience to have to wait a few minutes more.

"It's a delicate art," said Crowley, adding in the whipping cream and the salt, listening to the hiss of a buttered pan. "You've made me a monster, angel, you think it's my fault I know how cooking works?"

"Oh, yes. I should have just let you go on staring at me as I ate like some kind of—" Aziraphale waved his hand, trying to find a word, but couldn't. "Well. Regardless. I have to expand your palette some way or another. Since you still won't  _ read _ any literature."

Crowley turned off the flame beneath the pan and turned his attention to the pasta. He took a large spoon out of the drawer, fished out a single piece of pasta, and popped it into his mouth. "Fuck! Hot." But it was soft, so he turned off that flame too and carried the pot to the sink to drain into the colander. As he rinsed the steaming pasta, Crowley said, "If I've told you once, Aziraphale... I like it when you read to me."

Aziraphale started towards Crowley as he swore at the pasta he had so foolishly put in his mouth, but stopped midstep. He smiled, a golden warmth only Crowley could kindle filling his body. "Well, I'll read you some  _ Pride and Prejudice _ tonight before you go to sleep then." However much pleasure Crowley derived from hearing Aziraphale read to him, it couldn't hold a candle to how much Aziraphale enjoyed reading, having Crowley's gold-soft, exposed eyes on him, lost in his voice and enthralled. It didn't take much to enthrall Crowley, he was devoted like that, but using words like  _ romance _ and  _ longing _ and watching Crowley's insides visibly melt was a sight Aziraphale could hardly live without.

"Mm." Crowley leaned toward that smile, a moth to the flame, a boat to the lighthouse. Inevitable. "The Pemberley visit?" He pulled back just as Aziraphale stepped forward, dodging around him to get to the fridge. Crowley tsked. "The cheese, angel, wait your turn."

Aziraphale stuttered. "Wait my  _ turn?" _ he repeated. He crossed the kitchen with speed he didn't have much need for anymore and caught him around the waist, tugging him away from the fridge and holding him fast. "I had to wait six thousand and something years for this, I'm not being usurped by  _ cheese." _

"Fair enough," Crowley conceded, "well said," knees going just a bit weak in the face of his angel's strength, in the face of being wanted; with a quick thought, he ensured that the abandoned pasta-mushroom mixture wouldn't be too cold to melt parmesan when they were ready, and then submitted entirely to being kissed.

Aziraphale turned him around and did indeed kiss him, arms around him and bumping the fridge shut with his shoulder. "The love of my life and he wants me to wait for him to finish with cheese," he said, separating momentarily for an unneeded breath. "Unbelievable."

"You like cheese."

"I like  _ you _ more." Aziraphale tucked a stray lock of hair behind Crowley's ear, but finally and reluctantly let him go. "Alright, go and put the parmesan in." Kind words and flattery were in easy supply now. Now that he knew that he could say anything and face no consequences, he took every opportunity to express how much he adored Crowley.

Crowley knew he was blushing; he didn't mind. "One more," he said, and kissed Aziraphale again. And again. The food could wait, couldn't it? And again. There was no reason to rush. Another kiss. They had all the time in the world.

Aziraphale thought about chastising Crowley; he had made such a fuss about making Aziraphale wait, and now here he was, et cetera, but he daren't interrupt the kiss. He let Crowley kiss him and kissed him back, finding a new place to put his hands every time until they were tangled into Crowley’s hair, threatening to pull out the loose bun completely.

"Mnff," said Crowley, into Aziraphale's mouth. His hands were on Aziraphale's waist; he pulled Aziraphale towards him hungrily.  _ More, _ he thought, and it was the most natural thing, now, to be able to act on it.

Aziraphale hummed in response, letting Crowley tug him closer. "My dear, we should be having dinner," he mumbled, though he made no move to pull away. Crowley's embrace was much too perfect for a thing like that. "We could always continue after."

"Yesss..." Crowley paused to raise an eyebrow. "After,  _ and _ now..."

He laughed. "You've got me for as long as you like, there's no need to rush." Despite that, he pressed a kiss to the underside of Crowley’s jaw, then to the other side. "However,  _ I _ am hungry."

_ As long as you like. Always. _ Crowley supposed it wouldn't be terrible to wait until after dinner for Aziraphale to ruin his hairdo. The parmesan was melted, the goat cheese and spinach added; the plates were filled. "Your wish," said Crowley, leaving the rest unsaid, and handing Aziraphale his plateful. "Don't forget your bread. And the wine."

Aziraphale beamed at him, utterly entranced with him, his devotion, his kindness. The way the setting sun made his hair glow like a halo of fire. The way he just left things unsaid because he knew Aziraphale would understand. He pulled a piece of bread out and topped off both their wines. "How are your carnations coming in?" he asked as he was finally able to dig into the promised meal.

"They're all white now. Finally lost those stupid stripes, only took ages of telling them off about it." Crowley stole a forkful from Aziraphale's plate. "How're the books? Still waiting on that Heyer shipment?"

Aziraphale smacked at his hand and purposely missed. He had mentioned numerous times that being kind to the plants might work better than striking fear into them, but Crowley never listened. Just gave Aziraphale more reason to whisper encouragement to them when he went out into the garden. "Yes, still waiting. It's been weeks. Surely we're not that far away from civilization."

"Ooh, that may be my fault. Royal Mail and all, well, it seemed like a good idea on paper. The memos practically wrote themselves."

Aziraphale glared halfheartedly at him. "Oh, of course it's  _ your _ fault," he said with a distinct lack of venom.

Crowley pouted. Or rather, he gave Aziraphale the face he thought of as a more effective frown. "I can fix it," he offered. "I'll head out tomorrow an' find out who's keeping your books away, scare 'em into sending them along?"

"Oh… I wouldn't want you to go through any trouble," Aziraphale said, with a smile that clearly indicated otherwise.

Aziraphale's hand was just sitting there on the table. Crowley gave in to temptation and took it. "You couldn't be any trouble."

He softened visibly, before leaning over and kissing Crowley’s cheek. "I'm not entirely sure about that."

"Hey," said Crowley gently. "None of that, now. We've done our apologies, Aziraphale, remember? And it was worth it. All of it. You're worth it."

Aziraphale looked down at his plate, biting his lip. "I know," he said without conviction. He took a bite.

Crowley squeezed the hand in his; his other hand came up to cup Aziraphale's face, the soft skin of his cheek and jaw familiar beneath Crowley's fingers. Quietly: "Angel. Look at me?"

Slowly, Aziraphale turned and looked up at Crowley, looking into his eyes, full of love Aziraphale sometimes felt he didn't deserve. His eyes slid to look slightly past Crowley, away from the intimacy.

"Okay," whispered Crowley, noticing the slip, and knowing why, and not pressing it. He swallowed. "I'm going to say some things, things I've told you before, things you deserve to hear again. Every day if you need. Twice a day if you like. As often as you want. Okay? First is that I love you. So much I can't— I don't have words for it, Aziraphale, I love you more than the air in my lungs, more'n anything could prove. More than the quantifiable universe, so much I'd have to turn to your poets for explanation. 'For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings that then I scorn to change my state with kings.' I love you, and you are all I ever wanted, and I don't regret anything that got us here. That's the first thing. Ready to listen to the rest?" Crowley waited.

Aziraphale's eyes filled with tears and he shut them to stem the tide. He sniffled, caught his breath, and nodded.

"Good," Crowley said, stroking his thumb across the backs of Aziraphale's knuckles, the first place he'd ever kissed him. "You're so  _ good, _ Aziraphale. The best of all of them, all of us. You're caring and wonderful and— and perfect. Not perfect as in never making mistakes, but perfect for me. Perfect, angel, I swear it. You're— you are exactly what you should be. I don't want us dwelling on the hurt we caused each other, before, when we were scared and alone. I know it happened and I— it was bad. For both of us. It doesn't... go away because it's over, but... Maybe we can let go, just a little bit. How's that sound?"

Aziraphale watched Crowley’s fingers as they played across his knuckles. He listened to his voice as it reassured him, told him things he needed to hear, but couldn't believe. "Alright, Crowley," he murmured.

Crowley took a deep breath. This was the big one. He knew Aziraphale always had a hard time with this one. "And it wasn't your fault."

He hiccuped, a side effect of trying to keep from sobbing. Of course Crowley would say that. He would always say that. But was he right? Could he be trusted to be objective?

"It wasn't your fault," Crowley said again, and swiped his left thumb across Aziraphale's cheekbone to catch a tear before it could fall. He'd worried, once, whether an angel's tears would hurt him. They didn't burn, but the answer was still yes. "You did what you had to. You were keeping us safe. If you— if you'd done what I wanted from the start, they would've killed us, and— I-I-I would have, if it had come to that, for you, for this, but— We made it. We're  _ home, _ Aziraphale, and that's thanks to you." He cleared his throat in a vain attempt to keep from tearing up himself. "Your pasta's getting cold."

Aziraphale choked on a half-laugh. "I love you," he said, the only thing he could think to follow that with. "I love you and I'm sorry it took so long before I could say that." He kissed Crowley briefly, before turning back to his food.

Crowley smiled and watched Aziraphale eat. "You love me."

He smiled as well, smaller and less sure. He paused his eating. "Yes. Of course I do," he said. Sometimes Aziraphale could hardly believe it himself. Not that he loved Crowley; that was something he had been aware of for a long time. And it wasn't even necessarily that Crowley loved  _ him, _ because the demon made it plain enough, reminded him whenever necessary or possible. It was mostly that they had been able to get here, relatively unscathed. That they could say they loved each other without fear. They could whisper it in the dark as they lay in bed. They could say it in the mornings in the moments after waking. They could say it as they cooked together, as they ate or watched TV or walked together. They could even say it without words. He marveled at their freedom, finally.

Crowley propped his chin up on one hand. "Tell me again."

Aziraphale’s smile became wider, more genuine, and he reached across the expanse, and put a hand on Crowley's knee. "I love you more than a poet could ever express."

"Mmmm..." Crowley closed his eyes, missed Aziraphale's face, and opened them. His chest felt so warm it was almost hot, like it should be glowing, like it could be seen. "Again."

Abandoning his pasta once more, Aziraphale moved his chair closer to Crowley's so he could kiss the tip of his nose. "I love you more than anything on Earth, above it, or below it."

"Aziraphale..." Crowley folded his arms on the table to bury his face in them. He could feel Aziraphale laughing. After a moment, he turned his head and peeked over his elbow at Aziraphale to mumble, "Love you."

He grinned, threading his fingers into Crowley's hair. "I love  _ you,  _ my gorgeous." Aziraphale pressed his face into Crowley's hair, taking a deep breath of the scent that was as familiar to him now as his own.

He should be used to it by now, Crowley thought, and yet every compliment hit him like the first, like he'd never been told such a thing before. He loved to hear it, every time, falling easily from Aziraphale's lips; his angel was so generous. Crowley sat up so he could lean in close, close enough to feel Aziraphale's almost-laughing breath against his, so close that it was almost close enough. "Go on," he purred, and then did his best to prevent Aziraphale from speaking anyway by kissing white wine and flattery off his tongue.

Aziraphale hummed contentedly into Crowley's mouth. "You're radiant, you glow like fire when you're in the sun," he whispered in the tiny spaces between kiss and breath. "Your eyes are like stars in the evening. Your voice is tempting and beautiful and enthralling." He took one of Crowley's hands in his, lacing their fingers together. "Would you like me to say more?"

"Please," gasped Crowley, trembling, wanting,  _ wanting— _ and having.

He brushed Crowley's hair aside and began peppering his jaw with kisses. "I love you top to bottom, inside to outside. I love your fingers and your teeth and your laugh, and I love the way you purr my name. It's decadent."

Crowley laughed, tiny, helpless. "You make me sound like chocolates, angel."

"Mm, you might as well be," Aziraphale murmured, not letting up on his kissing. "You're just as wonderful. You remember the time you brought me chocolates at the shop? Sap."

Crowley, hopelessly sappy, grumbled at the term, and put a brief stop to the onslaught of endearments by catching Aziraphale's mouth with his once more. "You gave me tea and wine and then I left without g— before you could eat them," he pointed out. "They were alright?" He was pretty sure the chocolatier he'd gotten that box from was no longer operating, but he could always find somewhere else to frequent.

Aziraphale scoffed at him. "Alright?" he asked. "They were wonderful, dear. I almost didn't want to eat them because they were such a perfect gift." He stood, drew Crowley up with his hands on his waist, and went to the living room, sitting down on the couch. Much more comfortable and convenient than the dining room table.

His hands were still pulling Crowley forward; Crowley clambered onto the couch, knees on either side of Aziraphale, to settle into his lap. "Better," he said, with his hands already caught up in blond curls.

Aziraphale smacked his shoulder, smiling at him. "Oh, Crowley," he said, playfully chastising, before pulling him into a kiss.

Crowley responded enthusiastically. "That's right... Can do the washing-up later," he said, breathless, holding tighter.

Aziraphale laughed, working his hands up and down Crowley's sides. "Whatever you say, my dearest."

"My angel," murmured Crowley.  _ Mine. How did I get so lucky? How did I ever get to be this happy? _ He could picture it, so easily, the two of them standing side by side in the kitchen once more and passing dishes between them, talking about nothing in particular as the water ran. Aziraphale would point out where he'd missed a spot and Crowley would scrub at it like the plate had done him some grievous wrong, scowling, until Aziraphale laughed; maybe Crowley would ensure that one or two of the dry plates would be suddenly less-dry than they were before, just to extend the moment, just to make Aziraphale give him the look that said he knew what he was up to; and they'd set the plates and glasses aside when they were done, back to their rightful positions, everything in its place. Ready for next time. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

_ "My _ Crowley," Aziraphale responded, with heat in his voice that didn't come close to matching the fire in his chest. He kissed him again, for a long moment, feeling absolutely and utterly at peace. Not perfect, no; it had taken millennia to get even this far, and it would take millennia more to get to a place even resembling perfect. But he didn't mind. All he needed was his books, his snacks, and his Crowley.

"Yours," a promise, a prayer, "yes, yours, please."  _ Yours if you'll have me, yours if you'll take me. _ Some things were beyond a single language. Some things were too much. He didn't want to use French: Aziraphale should hear, now that he could. Now that Crowley could say anything he liked, everything in his heart. "Ani l'dodi v'dodi li," he said, hushed.  _ I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine; I am for my beloved and they are for me; I'm yours, be mine. _

"You don't need to say please," Aziraphale told him. "You don't even need to ask." He kissed the whispered Hebrew off Crowley’s lips, and then responded with his own: "B'evrati asech licha, v'tachat kinafai tech'seh, tzina v'socheira amiti."  _ With my wing I will cover you, and under my wings you will take refuge; my truth is an encompassing shield. _ And then, in Greek: "Ekató kardiés tha ítan polí líyes ya na kratísun óli tin agápi mu ya séna."  _ A hundred hearts would be too few to carry all my love for you. _ Finally, in what little French he knew: "Ja t'aime, mon vieux serpent1."

Crowley didn't mind the clumsy French. He cast his mind back. "Hilizu ay zebaam lalam kukuda."  _ Goodly is your beauty, honeysweet. _ Civilization was old, but they were older. "Zot hapa'am etzem mei'atzamai u'basar mi'bsarai," as Adam had spoken, looking upon his wife for the first time:  _ This one, this time, at last, is bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh. _ Of two, one. Finally. "Aziraphale."  _ Angel. I love you. _

He wrapped his arms around him, burying his face into Crowley's shoulder and smiling into it. Aziraphale cradled him, feeling alive and holy in a way no other angel could understand. And then he said quietly into Crowley's ear, his voice multi-layered and coming less from his throat and more from the core of his being, in the language of angels,  _ "Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love." I'd walk through Hellfire for you. I'd cross solar systems, if you asked. _

Crowley trembled, shivered, almost shuddered. He tipped his head back, like sainted ecstasy; he closed his eyes and shook. Demons weren't meant to speak Enochian. The knowledge of it was supposed to be struck from them, somewhere in the process on the way Down, between judgment and impact. He shouldn't've been able to understand Aziraphale, just then. Humans heard angels speak and were driven to madness or greatness. Demons didn't really have much chance to hear angelic speeches. Crowley had assumed he'd lost the knack of it.

But he'd understood all the same. Not the words, not exactly; what Aziraphale had said was less of a whisper and more of a thought, an abstraction in the shape of a reference, and Crowley couldn't be sure he'd gotten it right. Still: he'd heard the voice. An angel on his shoulder, speaking into his ear, telling him truths. Giving instruction. What could he do but obey? "Of course," he gasped, because he had no doubts, not anymore, not when it came to  _ this. _ To them. There were very few things Crowley was really certain of; Aziraphale was one of them. "'Of the very instant that I saw you did my heart fly at your service.'"  _ Yours. Always. Since the start, past the end. _ Another certainty.

Aziraphale watched as Crowley shuddered in his arms, gasped in response to his heaven-tipped words, his features pure ecstasy and pleasure. It was all he could do not to run his fingers through his hair and pull, press his lips to the softest and most sensitive parts of him, speak only in Enochian for the rest of time just to see it again. He could hear Crowley mew for eternity, blasphemous and beautiful. "Fuck—" he whispered, pressing his lips hard against his jaw. "Crowley."

_ "Hh—! _ Angel, that is—" Crowley swallowed. He looked down at the look on Aziraphale's face and continued faintly, "It's wholly unfair. C'mere." And he pulled Aziraphale up to kiss him properly.

Aziraphale kissed him, and allowed it to go on for quite some time before he muttered, defiantly, "What's wholly unfair is the way you look, my dear," before giving in to more kissing.

"Nnh... Mf. Nuh. Lis— Mmm. Listen." Crowley sat back, trusting that the hands around his waist would keep him from toppling off the couch. "I've got the only angel in the bloody world who'll swear at me, an' I'm sitting in his lap, and he's telling me fucking poetry.  _ That _ is unfair." He cupped Aziraphale's face in both hands. "It's horrible, how much I love you. What'm I supposed to do with all this?" He could make a start, Crowley figured, by kissing him again, so he did.

Aziraphale smiled and kept a good hold as Crowley sat back, gazing up at him like something to be worshipped. As Crowley leaned down to kiss him again, Aziraphale returned it fiercely. "I could always recite more poetry," he offered. "See how much you could hear before you exploded." Crowley thought  _ he _ was the sore one here? Oh no. "Honestly, Crowley, anything you think of me, I think of you tenfold so it's really no use arguing. I could go on about platitudes and compliments and flatteries and I know you'd revel in it like the little devil you are, but it would, ultimately, be futile, as words can't express how I feel."

"You..." Crowley laughed and pressed his forehead to Aziraphale's. "You're so pretentious, you know that? I love you."  _ Someone help me, I love you so much. _ He exhaled. Slower this time: "Fuck, I love you."

Aziraphale laughed, and it dropped off into a contented breath as Crowley repeated himself. "I love  _ you," _ he replied, tipping his face for another brief kiss. "My dearest." There weren't enough words in any language new, old, or dead to express it.

Silently, Crowley shifted positions, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale but scooting down until he could press his head to Aziraphale's chest. He closed his eyes. The steadiness of Aziraphale's heartbeat filled him.

Aziraphale let out a contented sigh and shut his eyes as Crowley adjusted. He smiled and stroked his hair, the other hand around him. What could Heaven offer that would top this? No pleasant garden would ever outperform the feeling of the love of his eons-long life against his chest, warm and comfortable and safe, finally safe.

"Lfyu," murmured Crowley, half-asleep already. "Mm... Z'rfl?"

He peeked out the bottom of one eye at him. "Yes, my dear?"

Crowley reached for coherency. "Carry me up?"  _ You said you'd read to me. The dishes can wait. Hold me. _

Aziraphale couldn't help but fall in love with him all over again. "Hmm," he said, pretending to consider it. "I suppose I might be bothered." 

With a bit of effort— and possibly a frivolous miracle— he got to his feet with Crowley curled up bridal style in his arms. He brought him upstairs. He pulled back the bedsheets one-handed and then deposited the demon on the bed. He even went as far as to undo the already-ragged bun in his hair and tuck him in. "There," said Aziraphale, stroking his cheek.

"Th'nkssss..." Crowley's eyes drifted shut again. He mumbled something else, but without vowels it was something like  _ Yrsgdtmnjl. _

Aziraphale, who had spent many years with Crowley and now quite a bit of time around a Crowley who was comfortable falling asleep in his proximity, knew exactly what he had said. "Yes, much more than you deserve. Good night, my dear." He drew the curtains shut and shut the door gingerly, and then went back down to the kitchen to finish his dinner and wash the dishes.

Crowley meant to slip into sleep as easily as Aziraphale had slid him beneath the covers. The conditions were right, the bed was soft, and Aziraphale would come along soon to join him. But something was bothering him. He kicked the blanket off and stood. He wasn't sure what was wrong, so he did what he always did when he needed comforting, and went back to Aziraphale. "Hello again," he said, stumbling into the kitchen like a sleepwalker.

Aziraphale looked up from his place at the sink, where his sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, washing dishes. "Crowley, I thought you were going to sleep," he said, a frown on his lips. He dried his hands on his towel and went over to him.

"Mhm. Me too." Crowley sniffed. "But I— I dunno. Something..." He didn't finish. His chest was tight. He crossed his arms.

Aziraphale put his hands on Crowley's shoulders and looked into his face. "Tell me what's wrong," he said, voice gentle but firm. "Let me fix it for you."

And that was too much. "I don't— deserve you," said Crowley, voice breaking, eyes filling.

"Oh, my dear." Aziraphale thumbed Crowley's tears away, tucked loose strands of hair behind his ear. "Of course you deserve me. I wouldn't be here if you didn't. What brought this on?"

Crowley stifled a sob. "You... said," he began, and couldn't continue.

Aziraphale’s frown deepened, darkening wrinkles on his face as he thought back through the words exchanged. "Oh," he half-moaned, realizing his mistake. "Oh Lord." He sat Crowley down in one of the dining room chairs and knelt before him. He took his hands. "I wasn't being serious, Crowley." 

Crowley had comforted him and said all the kind things when Aziraphale was upset earlier, and now he had turned around and hurt him without meaning to— still, after everything, Aziraphale was hurting him with his careless, callous words. How many more times would he hurt the one he loved because he was too stupid to think them through?

"I— I know. You—" Crowley drew in a breath. "You wouldn't... hurt me."  _ Because you're so good. More than I deserve. _ "But..."

Aziraphale pressed a kiss into Crowley's knuckles, and then to his wrists. "I'm sorry," he said. It was a great effort for his own voice not to break. "You deserve everything I can give you. Anything. I'll take more care next time."

Crowley did his best to quiet the voices in the back of his mind that wanted to argue the point. He leaned down to press a kiss to the top of Aziraphale's head and stayed there for a long moment, smelling the familiar castile soap, grounding himself.  _ You love me, _ he'd said, smiling.

_ You don't even need to ask. _

He believed it. "Were you planning on washing up on your own?" Crowley mumbled into soft hair. "Or d'you wanna come up and read like you promised?"

"I wouldn't pass up an opportunity to read to you, my dear." Aziraphale let him rest there, just for a moment, before standing. "Come along." He took him by the hand and went up the stairs with him. He allowed Crowley time to change into something more comfortable for sleeping in while he looked through the bookcase for  _ Pride and Prejudice. _ This was one of many in the house. It was the home to all of Crowley's favorite books and poems, the ones he often asked Aziraphale to read from. Also in this bookshelf was  _ The Faerie Queene _ (for nostalgia's sake, Crowley always insisted), along with much poetry, including the assorted works of Dylan Thomas, Abu Nuwas, and Emma Lazarus. 

He pulled  _ Pride and Prejudice _ off the shelf, opened it to chapter forty-three, and sat down in bed to wait for Crowley.

Crowley finished wiggling into pyjamas and curled up beside him, pressing his face into the fabric of Aziraphale's sleeve. "Warm," he said appreciatively, and threw an arm over Aziraphale's stomach.

Aziraphale hummed out a laugh. "So I've been told," he said. He slipped on his reading glasses and opened the book. "Now. The Pemberley Visit, right? 'Elizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance of Pemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length they turned in at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter...'"

Aziraphale, of course, was a wonderful reader, and he did all the voices. Crowley would have teased him for it if it weren't so... so endearing, so  _ Aziraphale. _ He read about the unexpected appearance of Darcy and Crowley snickered: demons were not only immune to secondhand embarrassment, but thrived on it; then Aziraphale read out, "'She longed to know what at that moment was passing in his mind; in what manner he thought of her; and whether, in defiance of everything, she was still dear to him,'" and Crowley had to close his eyes. Accidental run-ins were one thing, amusing and entertaining, some light reading before bed. This— this longing, this uncertainty— it was almost too close.  _ Tell me again. In defiance of everything. _

Aziraphale kept glancing at Crowley from the corner of his eye, trying to judge whether or not he was asleep yet. He kept reading, was happy to. He moved his non-reading arm so he could stroke Crowley's hair, internally musing at the parallels between themselves and Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy.

_ It is impossible that he should still love— _ thought Elizabeth, and Crowley couldn't let that sentence finish, so he said, "Angel?" Rarely did he interrupt a reading session, but some things were unbearable. Quietly: "Tell me how it ends?" He knew. Of course he knew.  _ Tell me again. _ Some things were worth repeating. Sometimes he could use a reminder. "Please."

He smiled and shut the book. "Elizabeth realizes that Mr. Darcy was never as cruel as she thought originally," Aziraphale murmured. "They get married and move into Pemberley together. And most importantly, they live happily ever after."

Crowley strained upward to kiss that smile. "Mm. Together," he said, and then, "How could you begin?" The onset of a familiar exchange2.

He set the book on the bedside table, turned off the light, and laid down, facing Crowley. "I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation." He kissed his cheek. "It is too long ago." He kissed the tip of his nose.

"I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun," Crowley completed, and kissed every part of Aziraphale he could reach.

He grinned and fought against the kisses to intrude a few of his own. "A shame we haven't proper human surnames," he said when his lips were free again. "Otherwise I'd delight in hearing your name paired with mine."

_ "I've _ got a surname," Crowley protested. "S'just you who never got around to it."

"It doesn't count if you made your name your surname! I can't be Aziraphale Crowley any more than I can actually be Aziraphale Fell."

"You're right, that's ridiculous." Crowley frowned. "What's the Z stand for, anyway?"

"The A.Z. stands for Azira," he explained. "They work in tandem to create Aziraphale." He waved a hand. "Sort of. You're one to talk, anyway, Mr. Just-a-J."

Crowley sputtered. "But that's  _ nonsense."  _ He stole another kiss, while Aziraphale was distracted.

Aziraphale pushed Crowley's face away, laughing. "It is  _ not! _ At least I have an explanation."

"It doesn't  _ need _ to stand for anything," said Crowley patiently. "The important thing's having it. Makes the name feel real. Humanish. Looks right on forms. I could come up with a middle name if you need, though."  _ I can be anyone you want me to be. _ He raised an eyebrow.

Aziraphale considered the connotations of commenting on just how  _ human _ Crowley had become over the years. He decided better of it, and instead said, "You don't need to change anything for me, my dear. You're perfect the way you are."

"Ugh," said Crowley, beaming, "that's disgusting," and kissed him again.

Aziraphale hummed, but kissed him back. "You like it, though."

"I like  _ you." _

"And I  _ love _ you." He pressed a finger to Crowley's lips to keep him from continuing the argument. "Aren't you going to sleep?"

Crowley grumbled and took hold of Aziraphale's hand, partly to draw it out of the way of one more kiss and partly for the sake of holding hands. "Stay?"

"I certainly will." He pressed a final kiss to his forehead. "Good night, my love."

* * *

[1] I love you, my old serpent. (An error for _Je t'aime.)_

[2] An exchange between Elizabeth and Darcy at the start of chapter 60.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last time citing sources!  
> The meal they prepare together follows [this recipe.](https://pinchofyum.com/date-night-mushroom-pasta-with-goat-cheese)  
> [Carnation's symbolism:](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dianthus_caryophyllus#:~:text=Light%20red%20carnations%20represent%20admiration,a%20love%20cannot%20be%20shared.&text=Thus%20the%20pink%20carnation%20became%20the%20symbol%20of%20a%20mother's%20undying%20love.) "White carnations represent pure love and good luck, while striped (variegated) carnations symbolise regret that a love cannot be shared."  
> Neilman has confirmed [Aziraphale has Georgette Heyer novels memorized.](https://neil-gaiman.tumblr.com/post/186799869601/a-small-thing-that-bugged-me-why-did-aziraphale)  
> Shakespeare quotations: Sonnet 29, Hamlet 2.2, and Tempest 3.1.  
> Bible verses: Psalms 91:4 (paraphrased by Emma), Genesis 2:23.  
> The Akkadian (thanks again to cassieoh!) is from [Istanbul 2461,](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Istanbul_2461) the oldest known love poem in the world, as translated by Samuel Noah Kramer.  
> All translations of Hebrew are drawn from Chabad.org, Sefaria.org, and Emma. The Greek translation and transliteration are from [greekpod101.com.](https://www.greekpod101.com/greek-vocabulary-lists/15-love-phrases-for-valentines-day) Once again: we do not speak French or Greek- if you spot a mistranslation, please alert us!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this story! Please drop a comment to let us know what you thought of it! <3


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